XL 


"THRACIAN    SEA 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS   •    ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO..  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THRACIAN  SEA 


A  Novel 


BY 

JOHN  HELSTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "APHRODITE  AND  OTHER  POEMS' 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1914 


COFWIOHT,  1914 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  September,  1914 


TO   MY   MOTHER 

Mother,  take  this — the  tribute  of  a  pen, 
Ill-fledged  for  flight  in  many  realms  above 
The  damps  of  earth  that  weight  the  wings  of  love, 
Those  clouds  that  darken  on  the  eyes  of  men 
To  blind  the  soul,  their  prisoner  within. 
Yet,  when  I  have  looked  up,  be  this  to  prove 
I  looked  on  thee! — not  all  the  darkness  wove 
Of  all  the  looms  of  night  could  blind  me  then. 

As  one  who  sees  night  haunting  still  the  heath, 
Where  men  see  lights  at  morning  from  the  vale 
When  to  the  hills  comes  glory,  I  have  gone — 
While  sloth,  my  boon  companion,  stopped  for  breath 
To  curse  the  day,  for  coming  without  fail.     .     .     . 
If  there  be  good  in  this — I  am  thy  son. 


2136086 


FOREWORD 

IN  offering  this  book  to  the  public,  I  would  like  to 
say  that  I  have  endeavored  to  depict  the  truths  of  life 
in  certain  of  its  phases  as  they  are  being  lived  to-day  and 
as  they  appear  to  me,  a  socialist — one  not  altogether 
negligible  both  as  a  poet  and  as  a  practical  man  of  his 
hands. 

While  believing  that  the  social  and  industrial  revolu- 
tion is  not  yet,  I  hold  the  belief  that  peace  under  the 
old  order  is  already  passing  away  forever.  I  am  as 
fond  of  sport  (with  which  this  book  is  in  part  concerned) 
as  most  men  of  my  nationality;  and  am  insular  enough  to 
hope  that  our  race  may  not  be  behindhand — in  such 
strife  as  may  well  be  inevitable — in  setting  an  example 
of  fair  play.  A  frank  recognition  extended  to  "the  other 
man's  point  of  view"  should  do  much — since  we  are 
henceforth  to  be  divided — toward  restraining  class 
hatreds.  To  those,  capable  of  taking  thought  on  the 
subject,  who  have  had  acquaintance  with  it  at  first  hand, 
who  have  worked  as  working-men  themselves,  the  purely 
psychological  movement  among  the  masses  is  obvious 
enough:  a  decade  of  falling  real  wages,  the  "speeding 
up"  that  has  been  going  on,  the  frightful  toll  of  human 
lives,  are  additional  factors  exciting  the  soul  through  the 
body  of  the  proletariat. 

Such  a  book  as  this,  a  socialist's  study  of  the  ideals 
and  lives  of,  for  the  most  part,  middle-class  people,  may 
offend  the  susceptibilities  of  some:  but  unless  liberty  of 
conscience  be  frankly  accorded  to  men  expressing  ideas 
in  terms  of  such  art  as  they  can  command,  indifferently 
sincere  craftsmen  are  more  likely  to  result  than  the  re- 
moval of  social  antagonisms.  Signs  are  not  wanting  that 
liberty  for  the  Point  of  View  is  becoming  generally 
vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

recognized  as  an  essential  in  the  search  for  the  truths  of 
life.  Reviewers  have  accredited  me,  in  my  first  book, 
with  the  possession  of  power  and  originality — two  qual- 
ities which,  even  in  an  age  far  more  spiritually  and 
mentally  strenuous  than  this,  should  suffice  to  justify  a 
poet  in  his  choice  of  Literature  as  his  proper  profession : 
they  have  seen  fit  to  rebuke  me  for  bad  taste.  I  have  no 
doubt,  had  it  appeared  only  half  a  generation  earlier, 
that  they  would  have  used  much  stronger  condemnation 
or  ignored  the  book  altogether.  Such  belief,  to  me, 
promises  a  better  understanding  between  men  and  men 
in  the  future.  I  cannot  conceive  that  in  the  present  ortho- 
dox standards  of  good  taste  we  have  reached  finality;  or 
that  a  time  is  not  close  at  hand  when  many  ideas  on  con- 
troversial subjects,  officially  sanctioned  and  promulgated 
to-day,  will  be  held  to  be  in  anything  but  exceedingly 
bad  taste.  To  quote  only  one  example:  I  have  listened 
to  preachers  of  religion  promising  future  beatitudes  of 
eternal  life  to  ignorant  men  and  women,  worse  cared  for 
in  this  than  are  hunters  or  lap-dogs — human  lives  ex- 
ploited by  Commercialism  for  its  own  ends.  The  thing 
has  sounded  to  me  unseemly  to  a  degree.  Nevertheless, 
far  be  it  from  me  to  ask  for  the  suppression  of  the  book 
responsible  for  such  doctrines,  provided  men  are  al- 
lowed an  equal  right  to  deny  what  others  are  deliberately 
encouraged  to  affirm;  but  even  now  grotesque  injustice 
is  perpetrated  under  the  Blasphemy  Laws. 

If  I  have  written  this  book  without  sentimentality  as 
regards  the  susceptibilities  of  readers,  at  least  I  have 
not  spared  certain  of  my  own  in  the  process.  It  is  not 
written  for  children,  but  is  an  earnest  attempt  to  visual- 
ize, for  thinking  men  and  women,  the  truths  of  some  as- 
pects of  the  life  of  the  day  as  they  have  appeared  to  a 
writer  for  whom  the  old  order  of  society  is  already  con- 
demned and  waiting  sentence. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  AN  ALL-HALLOW'N  MARGARET i 

II.  A  SPORTSMAN  Is  INDICATED 13 

III.  THE  CALL  OF  THE  NIGHT  ON  THREE  TREES  23 

IV.  THE  FACE  OF  A  CHILD 35 

V.  MORNING 49 

VI,  GAMMER    POLGREAN    CONGRATULATES    THE 

ALMIGHTY 57 

VII.  BEAU  VIEW  TERRACE 65 

VIII.  "His  MOTHER" 74 

IX.  CAPTAIN  COE  "COMES  UP"  AT  KEMPTON  .     81 

X.  WIMBLEDON  PARK 90 

XI.  THE  OTHER  WOMAN 96 

XII.  JAMES  BURKETT  FALLS  IN  LOVE  AGAIN  .     .  104 

XIII.  WHITE  CHRYSANTHEMUMS 120 

XIV.  MRS.  GHOOLE       127 

XV.  THRACIAN  SEA  AND  BEVERLEY  BROOK      .     .132 

XVI.     THRACIAN  SEA  DOES  A  GOOD  GALLOP  .     .143 
XVII.     PLANE  TREE  AVENUE,  STREATHAM,  S.W.    .  149 

XVIII.     DUSK  ON  THE  DERBY  COURSE 156 

XIX.     HELEN  MAKES  ANOTHER  CONQUEST;  SYBIL, 

A  REVOLTING  DISCOVERY 169 

XX.     THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  WITH  A  MAN  .     .     .174 
XXI.     "Now,    THRACIAN     SEA,     TAKE     ME     TO 
YOUR  MASTER — AND  MINE!"  AND  How 
ix 


x  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  pAGE 

THRACIAN  SEA  ANSWERED  HELEN  DARELL 

AT  SANDQWN   PARK 185 

XXII.    THE  OTHER  MAN 192 

XXIII.  A  WEDDING  AT  WIMBLEDON,  AND  A  JOUR- 

NEY WESTWARD 198 

XXIV.  ODYSSEUS  APPEARS  IN  NORTH  DEVON     .     .211 
XXV.     CALYPSO  AND  PENELOPE 225 

XXVI.     MRS.  GHOOLE  LIVES  UP  TO  HER  REPUTA- 
TION      230 

XXVII.     LOVE   LAUGHS  AT  A  POET'S  PIETY  AND  A 

PARSON'S  POETRY 239 

XXVIII.     THE    APOSTASY    OF    THE    REV.    MERVYN 

INGESTRE 249 

XXIX.     CUP  DAY  AT  ASCOT 266 

XXX.     WHEN   WINDS   AND   WOODLAND   WHISPER 

IN  JULY 282 

XXXI.     HELL 289 

XXXII.     CUP  DAY  AT  GOODWOOD 296 

XXXIII.  A  NEW  AND  ORIGINAL  CHARACTER  INTRO- 

DUCED TO  THE  READER 304 

XXXIV.  AUNT    DEB'S    DIFFICULTIES,    AND    THEIR 

SOLUTION 311 

XXXV.     THRACIAN  SEA  SULKS  WITH  His  RIDER      .317 
XXXVI.    THE  TEMPTING  OF  MERVYN  INGESTRE    .    .  325 
XXXVII.     HELEN  BURKETT  DECIDES  TO  HUNT  AN  OLD 

TRAIL 339 

XXXVIII.     PHOEBE'S  REVENGE 347 

XXXIX.     A  STRANGER  COMES  TO  STOKE  MIDFORD      .  353 
XL.     HER  TAME  POET  SAYS  GOOD-NIGHT  TO  His 

DIVINITY,  AND  TO  HER  MOTHER-IN-LAW  357 


CONTENTS 


XI 


CHAPTER  PAG* 

XLI.  BETWEEN  THE  HILLS  AND  THE  SEA    .    .    .361 

XLII.    AT  SUNDOWN  IN  SUSSEX 367 

XLIII.  ARGYNNIS  PAPHIA  AND  A  "BUMBLE  BUSH"  370 

XLIV.  MERVYN  INGESTRE  TAKES  THE  HILL  WAY  .  376 

XLV.     LAODICE'S  LOVE 384 

XLVL  "THE  RISING  SUN"  AT  BEERMINSTER  .    .    .  390 

XLVII.     A  CESAREWITCH  FINISH 394 

XLVIII.    THREE  TREES  AGAIN 402 


THRACIAN    SEA 


"THRACIAN    SEA" 

CHAPTER   I 

AN  ALL-HALLOW'N  MARGARET 

THAT  autumn  had  been  very  fine.  September's  peace 
had  passed,  like  a  Presence  visualized  amid  its  own  auras 
of  golden-blue  light,  along  the  earth  and  skies:  a  quiet 
thing,  imperceptibly  lengthening  and  making  paler  its 
own  shadows  under  the  noon;  and  under  the  moon,  con- 
juring forth  the  first  white  spirits  of  the  fall  from  stilly 
fields  and  gorseland,  and  from  a  broad  bent-grass, 
marshy  in  places  with  springs  and  reedy  brooks,  that  lay 
among  the  hills  northward  of  the  fields  and  cluster  of 
cottages.  October  had  as  imperceptibly  turned  the  blue 
to  gray  and  brightened  the  woods  with  variant  leaves 
against  the  failing  sun :  and  still  the  slow  south-west 
winds  that  came  there  from  time  to  time  had  brought  few 
cloudy  days  and  little  rain.  November  came  down  the 
long  valley  of  Midford  Holt  dryshod,  with  feet  that 
brushed  through  a  crisp  gold  largesse  of  leaves  strewn 
beneath  the  beech  and  birch  on  the  hillsides  and  the  elms 
standing  sentinel  around  Stoke  Midford  hamlet. 

Miss  Deborah  Yeomans,  a  maiden  woman  approach- 
ing her  fiftieth  year,  dwelt  with  her  niece,  Margaret,  at 
the  cottage  standing  some  few  hundred  yards  north  of 
the  ring  of  elms.  Of  red-brick  and  stone,  lichened  over 
with  gray  and  orange,  oak-timbered,  and  roofed  with 
the  mottled  red  and  green  of  tiles  and  ancient  moss,  the 
cottage  was  snug  and  weather-proof  for  all  its  two  hun- 
dred years — a  pretty  place  enough,  with  its  front  garden 
of  chrysanthemums,  box  borders,  shrubs,  and  poplar 

i 


2  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

trees.  Before,  and  on  each  side,  the  bent-grass  stretched 
away,  the  bleached  brown  of  its  autumn  waves  now 
broken  by  rougher  places  of  darker  ling  and  heather. 
At  the  back  were  a  kitchen-garden,  apple-garth,  sheds, 
beehives,  and  a  fowl-run — the  whole  surrounded  by  a 
thick  hedge  of  thorns  and  holly,  ivy  and  briars.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  garth  a  gate  opened  out  into  a  wild  of 
gorse  and  brambles  and  thistles,  ragwort,  rushes  and 
greener  grass,  with  a  belt  of  beechwoods  beyond.  The 
garden  was  a  rare  place  for  bees  while  flowers  lasted: 
at  ivy-bloom  it  was  still  full  of  small  voices  from  the 
hedge;  where  black  and  scarlet  and  white  wings  of  many 
red  admirals  were  wont  to  flicker  their  last  in  the  sun 
before  folding  with  their  winter  sleep. 

Few  folk  passed  the  cottage  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end.  At  the  south  side  of  the  hamlet  a  road  to  Shapston, 
the  nearest  town,  ran  north-east  through  the  beech 
woods,  and  joined  a  road  from  the  west  that  crossed 
Midford  Holt  north  of  Miss  Yeomans'  cottage :  by 
which  route  a  saving  of  miles  was  effected.  The  road 
which  ran  directly  past  the  cottage,  and  thence  north- 
ward out  on  to  the  high  downs,  had  been,  so  local  tradi- 
tion affirmed,  a  great  road  in  Roman  times.  Now  it 
was  half  green  for  a  mile  at  a  stretch  in  parts;  and  one 
might  watch  its  shadows  change  sides  from  dawn  to 
dark,  without  sight  of  a  traveler  on  the  Midford  Holt 
section,  on  more  days  than  one,  even  in  wayfaring 
weather. 

Westward  the  downs  were  high,  only  less  so  than  in 
the  north  and  north-east.  Old  woods  clothed  many  of 
them:  denses  of  blackthorn  and  whitethorn  and  dog- 
wood, interspersed  with  gorse  and  heath  and  fern,  lay- 
on  the  tops  of  some :  some  were  bare  of  trees  and  aught 
but  grass,  and  these  generally  bore  some  traces  of  tumuli : 
all  had  their  peculiarities  of  wind  voices  and  echo,  of 
sound  and  color  reflexion.  On  some,  so  old  a  spirit 
seemed  to  haunt  their  sides,  one  might  have  looked  for 
the  ambages  of  a  forgotten  world,  that  wound  out  of  the 
womb  of  Time  before  a  tree  was  born:  on  some  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  3 

weanling  sinews  of  a  two-leaved  oak  did  lonely  battle 
with  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  for  a  right  of  entry  into  five 
hundred  years  of  life. 

The  elder  of  the  two  women  with  whom  this  narra- 
tive is  first  concerned  had  seldom  set  foot  in  these  soli- 
tudes during  the  ten  years  her  niece  had  made  her  home 
with  her.  The  younger,  when  she  grew  toward  woman- 
hood, came  to  love  their  ways, — the  flower-bright  carpets 
of  early  spring;  the  beeches'  verdant  gold  of  leaf  and 
bloom,  whereto,  no  doubt,  came  many  of  Aunt  Deb's 
own  bees  among  the  quick-winged  tribes  that  seached 
the  woods;  the  birds,  native  and  immigrant,  that  made 
their  home  there  and  the  Holt's  canopies  of  tree 
and  sky  melodious  with  manifold  music;  the  thou- 
sand silver  flames  that  were  the  white  beam  tree; 
the  large  fragrance  of  the  hawthorn  brakes;  the 
odored  fountains  of  the  scarcer  limes,  resonant  with 
tiny  song,  as  June  crept  on  above  the  high  tide  of  the 
year;  the  spotted  wings,  fulvous  and  black  and  green  and 
silver,  of  the  wildwood-loving  fritillaries,  that  flashed 
and  fed  on  bramble-flowers  and  honeysuckles;  the  burn- 
ing breath  of  August  that  darkened  all  the  leaves;  the 
dew-light  of  autumn  mornings  on  the  world;  the  sloes 
and  blackberries  and  crabs,  the  scarlet  capsules  of  the 
dogrose,  the  mushrooms  half  hidden  in  the  gleaming 
grass,  the  sound  and  scent  of  the  slow-falling  leaves; 
the  rain  voice  from  the  far  south-west,  that  came  and 
woke  a  myriad  whispering  echoes  in  Midford  Holt;  the 
shouting  north  that  heralded  the  hush  and  yellow  glooms 
of  snow; — all  these  things  made  up  a  world  of  wonder- 
ment to  Margaret.  They  were  grateful  things  to  her, — 
pleasures,  where  for  most  young  women  there  would 
have  been  dullness  and  boredom.  She  had  few  of  the 
superficial  and  often  inane  conceptions  of  life  that  make 
so  many  girls  the  slaves  of  shop-windows  and  showy 
artifice.  Nature  was  for  her  as  real  and  alive  as  the 
streets,  and  far  more  beautiful;  she  was,  congenitally,  in- 
different to  the  glamour  of  great  cities. 

A  week  in  London  had  excited  her,  scarcely  more 


4  "THRACIAN  SEA'* 

than  that :  the  young  man  at  the  Clapham  Junction  lodg- 
ings where  they  stayed  had  made  up  to  her  with  sundry 
winks,  and  in  a  patronizing  way,  before  he  had  finished 
uncording  her  box.  He  had  flushed  hotly  at  two  girls' 
remarks  respecting  herself,  as  they  returned  one  night  in 
the  train  from  the  Exhibition,  where  he  had  escorted 
her  when  her  aunt's  head  had  been  "too  bad"  to  permit 
of  her  going.  He  was  nice  to  her,  in  his  way,  she  sup- 
posed, and  very  good-looking;  but  he  interjected  fre- 
quently, like  a  parrot,  some  music-hall  witticism  she  could 
not  understand,  and  seemed  half  hurt  when  she  did  not 
laugh  shrilly  at  his  jokes,  as  two  other  girls,  sitting  op- 
posite them  in  the  compartment,  never  failed  to  do.  In- 
deed, their  attentions  had  irritated  and  annoyed  her:  if 
they  wanted  him  they  could  have  him,  for  her,  and  wel- 
come; but  their  cool  way  of  studying  her  hat,  and  her 
hair,  and  her  everything,  between  whiles,  had  aroused  the 
woman  in  her  considerably.  Afterwards,  her  escort's  im- 
passioned offer  to  give  up  Another — a  certain  young  lady 
who  did  the  typing  at  the  office,  and  who,  he  implied,  was 
mad  on  him — for  herself,  met  with  a  firm  refusal.  The 
youth  had  returned  home  late  on  the  following  night; 
and  she  heard  him  groaning  and  being  very  sick  in  his 
room.  On  the  whole  she  was  glad  to  get  back  to  Mid- 
ford. 

With  the  fine  weather  she  had  been  much  out  of 
doors  this  autumn.  On  this  particular  afternoon,  when 
returning  from  Moulton  Ridges — the  highest  point  of 
the  downs,  at  the  head  of  the  valley — through  the  gorse 
above  Stourbrook  Crossways,  she  had  waited  for  the 
dusk  that  threw  a  blue  veil  of  shadows  across  Midford 
Holt — the  dusk  that  wakened  stars  over  Rook's  Down, 
and  lights  in  the  hamlet  below.  There  was  something 
in  the  place  and  hour  that  kept  the  girl  there,  that  steeped 
her  senses  in  the  mystery  of  things,  so  that  she  lingered, 
vaguely  wondering  amid  the  silences  of  the  twilight  hill- 
sides. There  the  presence  of  the  Unseen  made  itself 
manifest,  through  the  slowing  pulses  of  the  autumn,  to 
a  nature  simple  nor  lacking  in  those  other  elements  of 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  5 

sensuousness  and  passion  that  have  been  held  as  essential 
to  the  making  of  poetry,  as  it  may  be  they  are  pre- 
requisite to  every  higher  articulation  of  sentient  life 
itself. 

She  was  certainly  a  pretty  girl:  her  figure  promised 
to  be  beautiful  for  many  years.  Her  eyes  were  gray:  her 
skin  still  retained  something  of  the  summer's  tan — a  pale 
brown,  slightly  suffused  with  red  in  her  cheeks.  Her 
hair,  in  the  shade,  was  just  brown — in  the  sun  it  re- 
sponded wonderfully  to  his  golden  ardors.  She  was  of 
medium  height.  Her  nineteen  years  had  fashioned  her 
form  on  lines  sufficiently  desirable  to  appeal  to  the  senses 
of  the  average  man,  to  the  subtler  instincts  of  the  artist, 
or  to  the  envy  of  her  less  favored  sisters, — and  there 
were  many  of  the  latter.  Her  features  were  regular, 
her  lips  full:  there  was  neither  shyness  nor  boldness  in 
her  face;  a  certain  homely  placidness  was  its  everyday 
expression.  At  times  it  had  a  wistfulness  sufficiently  its 
own  to  denote  more  personality  than  domesticity — a  cer- 
tain gentleness  with  a  suggestion  of  strength  in  it,  and  of 
a  great  capacity  for  loving;  the  more  obvious  signs  of 
primitive  natures  were  not  noticeable.  She  was  simply 
dressed  in  a  light  brown  skirt  and  jacket;  her  hat  was  of 
faded  straw,  with  some  rather  faded  flowers  round  it. 
If  her  bare  hands  were  rather  rough,  they  were  small 
and  well  shaped:  there  was  nothing  of  that  large  coarse- 
ness about  her,  so  frequently  found  in  rural  districts. 

Her  father,  a  village  schoolmaster,  who  had  died 
of  a  local  epidemic  when  she  was  a  little  maid,  had  left 
her  somewhat  of  his  quiet  studiousness  of  disposition. 
Also  he  had  left  her  a  number  of  books  of  poetry,  fable, 
and  romance.  These  her  own  simple  mind  had  devoured 
until  she  had  made  personal  friends  or  enemies  of  their 
characters,  and  had  reconstructed  her  favorite  scenes 
among  the  secluded  fastnesses  of  the  surrounding  woods 
and  hills.  Without  much  of  education,  ignorant  of  life — 
where  Life  is  measured  by  the  golden  rule  of  Mammon 
and  the  theodolite  of  the  town — nevertheless  Nature  had 
taught  her  many  lessons  of  her  own;  lessons  not  without 


6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

their  influence  for  good  in  forming  the  character.  More- 
over, such  truths  as  she  can  teach,  she  teaches  thoroughly ; 
though  they  be  diametrically  opposed  to  the  ideals  of 
some  of  her  daughters  who  have  outgrown  the  crudities 
of  her  ancient  curriculum,  detrimental  as  it  is  to  the  pres- 
ervation of  a  good  figure  and  to  those  more  important  ac- 
complishments of  an  enlightened  age. 

Much  of  the  genius  of  the  place  had  grown  into  the 
girl's  mind;  and  not  a  little  of  its  peace,  during  this 
autumn,  that  had  at  first  brought  her  contentment.  But 
of  late  the  introspective  woman  had  been  uneasy — assert- 
ing herself,  and  questioning,  without  satisfaction,  the  con- 
sequence of  objective  things.  Her  nature  had  ripened 
with  the  year,  but — no  man  had  come  for  the  harvest. 
She  did  not  entirely  apprehend  it  in  that  wise — it  may 
be  doubted  if  she  understood  much  of  the  changes  that 
were  taking  place  in  her.  There  were  few  men  at  Mid- 
ford — the  place  held  perhaps  a  dozen  families — and 
fewer  young  men,  and  those  of  a  type  not  likely  to  ap- 
peal to  the  girl's  heart  or  mind.  There  was  no  man  in 
her  life  at  all,  save  a  shadowy  hero  of  her  own :  such  men 
as  wanted  to  be  in  it  had  aroused  no  answering  impulses 
within  her;  but  since  she  had  been  husband  high  the  girl's 
natural  destiny  had  been  at  work  quickening  and  prepar- 
ing her  whole  temperament  for  the  inevitable  day  of  ex- 
altation or  disaster.  She  was  moody  with  inchoate 
thoughts  that  thickened  in  her  blood, — a  girl  healthy  in 
mind  and  body,  innocent,  but  not  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
she  was  alone  in  a  lonely  place,  in  whose  loneliness  a 
thousand  thronging  suggestions  somehow  found  both  a 
fit  and  an  unfit  environment. 

When  such  moods  took  hold  on  Margaret  the  wild 
had  an  irresistible  attraction  for  her.  South  of  Stoke 
Midford  was  a  good  deal  of  arable  land  and  green  pas- 
ture, interspersed  with  woodland — undulating  country 
sparsely  inhabited,  with  a  winding  road  that  forked  a 
mile  beyond  the  village  and  reached  out  to  a  wide  main 
road  with  broad  green  edges,  some  miles  further  south. 
In  her  early  teens  she  had  wandered  to  this  far-off  road, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  7 

by  way  of  one  of  the  forks,  and  after  journeying  along 
the  highway  (not  without  a  sense  of  adventure  on  it)  she 
would  return  by  the  other,  wondering  if  the  great  world 
that  she  had  just  left  ever  saw  her  coming  and  going. 
By  some  process  of  the  child's  imagination  her  parallels 
of  latitude  were  sharply  defined  north  and  south  of  her 
home.  Her  school  maps  showed  her  that  there  was  far 
more  of  the  great  world  below  her  own  country  than 
above  it;  and  for  her  the  south  was  a  sign  for  the  great 
world.  The  sun  lived  in  the  south,  for  one  thing;  and 
far  away  in  the  south  was  a  great  sea,  with  proportion- 
ately great  waves  and  fishes  and  ships.  True,  the  hills 
to  the  north  were  bigger  than  those  to  the  south.  Stand- 
ing on  the  barrow  where  an  old  king  was  buried,  from 
the  top  of  Moulton  Ridges  she  could  see  a  very  long 
way  sometimes,  but  in  the  south  she  felt  there  were  things 
bigger  than  she  could  see.  When  she  grew  older  she  re- 
membered these  matters,  as,  with  increasing  years,  the 
south  lost  much  of  its  mystery,  and  the  high  hills,  with 
their  combs  and  hanging  woods  and  wind  voices,  claimed 
her  more  and  more.  There  was  a  reason  for  this  within 
herself;  and  with  increase  of  strength  and  limb  she  felt 
more  at  home  in  the  hills,  where  she  came  to  understand 
their  ways  and  to  feel  a  growing  desire  for  them. 

Now,  with  the  afterglow  still  above  her,  she  stood 
dreaming  at  the  fading  landscape,  dimly  conscious  of  the 
pregnant  shadows  under  the  hills,  and  of  the  sunset's 
glory  darkening  down  the  west.  The  girl  in  her  was 
dying  and  the  woman  was  coming  into  her  kingdom, 
slowly,  imperceptibly,  inexorably,  as  the  night  was  creep- 
ing through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  valley;  while 
out  of  the  bosom  of  the  night  was  born  a  star. 

There  is,  for  all  natures  possessing  in  any  marked 
degree  the  faculty  of  understanding  esoteric  Nature,  a 
sense  of  the  Soul  of  Things  in  the  face  of  Solitude.  It 
may  vary  with  the  mood  of  the  beholder :  to  the  girl 
musing  there  between  the  hills  it  was  apparent,  if  be- 
yond her  powers  of  definition.  A  little  while,  and  the 
exterior  world  might  have  been  for  her  as  a  cestus,  where 


8  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

the  spirit  of  love  unborn  stirred  visibly;  while  Venus 
herself  began  high  mysteries  in  the  far  south-west. 

She  stood  very  still;  though  her  eyes  were  quieter 
than  her  thoughts.  There  was  no  rebellion  in  her,  only 
a  first  unrest  that  had  as  yet  hardly  moved  upon  the  calm 
current  of  her  days.  The  gorse  grew  darkly  indistinct: 
gray  shadows  flicked  with  white  ran  jerkily  about  the 
green  grass  and  red  bracken  patches;  the  rabbits  took  no 
heed  of  the  girl  who  took  no  heed  of  them.  The  light  wind 
of  the  day  had  died  out  and  left  the  valley  woods  long, 
silent  shadows:  the  last  harsh  note  of  a  cock  pheasant 
had  jarred  across  the  evening  peace.  There  was  nothing 
now  to  disturb  her  thoughts  from  the  dreams. 

How  she  would  love  her  hero  when  he  came !  Where 
was  he,  among  all  this  strange  delightful  mystery  that 
wrapped  the  woods  and  hills?  That  he  was  dark  and 
handsome  she  quite  understood;  also,  that  he  was  strong 
and  tender — a  masterful  man,  whose  strength  had  been 
his  weakness  on  one  dreadful  occasion  when  he  had  fallen 
to  the  wiles  of  a  certain  sorceress,  who  always  wore  her 
hair  in  two  long  plaits  while  she  prepared  potently  un- 
holy charms  with  which  she  smeared  her  voluptuous 
lips.  She  forgave  this  other  female  the  more  easily  inas- 
much as  the  experience  enabled  her  hero  to  appreciate 
her  own  disinterested  passion  for  himself.  She  was  con- 
scious of  a  great  and  growing  desire  to  worship  her  un- 
known :  perhaps  to  suffer  grievously  in  his  cause :  she  even 
died  on  occasion,  if  not  very  often — she  was  too  happy- 
natured  a  young  woman  for  that — in  his  arms,  after 
many  tribulations  and  a  baby.  She  always  blushed  when 
she  reached  this  last  stage,  and  was  as  acutely  conscious 
of  bliss  as  she  was  unconscious  of  any  banality  in  so 
dying.  Generally  her  hero's  mother  had  a  hand  in  her 
destruction;  but  Margaret  always  forgave  the  latter, 
long  before  the  end,  for  his  sake.  On  this  particular 
afternoon  she  had  already  passed  away  once  in  his  arms; 
and,  after  sighing  audibly,  she  began  to  rehearse  her  joys 
and  woes  over  again. 

Then  Chance  began  a  web  of  things  I  shall  tell  of,  in 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  9 

a  broad  bent-grass  by  lonely  cross-roads  toward  the 
northern  end  of  Midford  Holt  valley, — a  place  where 
the  brambles'  spotted  death  was  hung  with  a  myriad 
webs  for  shroud  and  the  stubborn  bracken  hardened 
swarthy  hearts  against  their  slow  year's  end  or  the  swift 
stroke  of  some  human  fern-cutter;  and  where  the  spirits 
of  the  dusk  held  commune  with  such  souh  as  came  there 
and  could  understand.  For  the  man  walking  northward 
toward  the  girl  standing  alone  in  the  gorse  they  were 
non-existent;  for  her,  she  was  neither  insensible  to  their 
mute  appeal  nor  wholly  unready  for  what  was  to 
follow. 

There  was  no  sign-post  at  the  Crossways.  Had  there 
been  one  she  might  never  have  come  into  James  Burkett's 
ken,  and  the  lives  of  some  men  and  women  would  have 
been  greatly  different  for  a  piece  of  painted  wood.  He 
hesitated,  then  taking  the  left  hand  road,  came  toward 
her. 

At  the  sound  of  his  boots  on  the  fine  flints,  Margaret 
awoke  from  her  reverie  and,  instinctively  moving  out  of 
the  gorse,  walked  along  the  road  toward  the  Crossways, 
as  the  heath  opposite  the  place  where  she  had  been  stand- 
ing sank  down  steeply  into  a  rush-grown  patch  of  marsh. 
As  the  two  drew  up  to  each  other  he  stopped  and,  raising 
his  hat,  inquired  the  way  to  Ford  Hinton. 

She  had  ventured  one  swift  look  of  scrutiny  at  him 
before  he  did  so,  and  the  result  was  disastrous  to  her 
composure.  Her  knees  trembled,  the  road  rose  and  fell, 
her  face  burned,  her  eyes  were  terribly  afraid.  For  a 
second,  flight  became  as  imperative  as  impossible.  It  was 
he !  Then  she  began  to  be  genuinely  angry  with  herself 
for  such  great  foolishness.  She  did  not  look  at  him 
again,  but  pointed  past  him  at  the  Crossways,  while  she 
said  in  a  rather  breathless  voice :  "You  be  on  wrong  road 
this  way;  straight  up  through  the  Holt  'tis,  and  seven 
mile." 

He  turned;  and  with  a  series  of  side-long  glances  she 
devoured  her  stranger-knight.  He  had  thanked  her  po- 
litely, and  seemed  to  be  quite  unaware  of  the  state  she 


io  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

was  in.     She  became  aware  that  he  was  talking  to  her 
pleasantly. 

The  solemnities  of  the  autumn  twilight  had  suddenly 
become  fraught  with  a  strange  joy  for  her,  as  she  en- 
deavored to  direct  him  again  while  they  walked  slowly 
back  to  the  junction  of  the  valley  roads — a  hundred 
yards  or  so.  She  found  herself  wishing  it  as  many  miles. 

James  Burkett  was  good  to  look  at — a  tall  man  and 
well  built;  with  a  strong  light  of  life  in  his  brown  eyes, 
and  much  youthful  grace  and  strength  obvious  about  him. 
He  wore  a  Norfolk  suit  of  fashionable  make  and  tweeds, 
and  spoke  with  the  accents  of  a  gentleman.  The  child  of 
nature  that  had  suddenly  become  a  woman  drank  in  his 
commonplaces  to  intoxication. 

Yes,  it  had  been  fine — the  weather. 

Yes,  she  knew  the  village  he  had  just  come  through. 
.  .  .    She  lived  there — with  her  aunt. 

He  had  been  to  Low  Green  (a  village  some  distance 
to  the  south-east  of  Midford)  and  had  tried  another 
road  coming  back.  .  .  .  He  was  stopping  at  Ford  Hin- 
ton,  with  Squire  Radleigh.  .  .  .  For  some  shooting. 

Her  compassion  for  wounded  birds  that  were  long 
a-dying  appeared  to  have  been  disproportionate — mis- 
placed even. 

They  reached  the  Crossways,  and  he  pointed  with  his 
stick  up  the  road  that  ran  northward. 

Yes,  that  was  his  way. 

He  lingered;  and  she  lingered,  too,  since  he  was  the 
first  young  man  that  had  disturbed  her  in  this  strange 
fashion  and  he  stood  looking  down  at  her  at  that  mo- 
ment; and  also  because,  if  she  read  a  question  in  his 
brown  eyes,  her  own  thoughts  were  too  chaotic  to  formu- 
late it  clearly  enough  to  satisfy  the  claims  of  curiosity. 
Then  suddenly,  as  Modesty — startled  at  even  this  short 
usurpation  of  her  sway — returned,  she  said,  "Good  even- 
ing," very  distinctly. 

It  was  nearly  dark — she  saw  his  hand  stretched  out, 
and  her  own  sought  it.  He  held  it  for  a  moment,  and 
this  time  th*  woman  in  her  trembled  between  rebellion 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  n 

and  acquiescence ;  when  he  released  it  her  face  was  burn- 
ing, but  her  eyes  were  smiling  more  than  she  knew. 

"Good-bye!" 

He  raised  his  hat,  and  turned  northward;  and  Mar- 
garet, stumbling  slightly,  hurried  toward  Stoke  Midford. 
At  a  safe  distance  she  stopped  and  looked  back  up  the 
strip  of  road,  where  a  dark  figure  waved  an  arm  to  her. 
She  half  waved  her  own  in  reply;  and  went  home  won- 
dering if  she  had  called  him  "sir." 

That  evening  she  untrimmed  her  hat,  with  feverish 
fingers  suddenly  grown  capricious.  The  latest  fashion 
book  the  carrier  from  Shapston  had  left  some  three 
weeks  before  became  a  thing  invested  with  an  awe-inspir- 
ing authority;  its  designers  arbiters  of  a  fate,  and,  as 
such,  to  be  approached  with  all  humility  and  reverence, 
that  the  spirit  of  their  works  might  descend  upon  her, 
their  disciple,  in  the  cult  of  the  Hat  Beautiful. 

Aunt  Deb,  who  read  assiduously  if  somewhat  slowly 
in  The  Family  Herald  of  evenings,  had  a  certain  grace 
about  her  of  her  own:  in  the  composure  of  the  calm  pale 
face  and  the  dark,  peaceful  eyes  was  much  of  that  patient 
strength  one  sees  more  often  in  country  women  than  in 
those  whose  lives  are  passed  within  the  sound  of  the  un- 
rest of  cities.  Her  hair  was  still  almost  as  black  as  it 
had  been  in  the  past,  and  seemed  severe  in  its  arrange- 
ment above  the  milder  brows  beneath. 

There  was  a  small,  sweet-smelling  fire  of  birch  logs 
in  the  grate,  with  its  old-fashioned  hooks  and  oven,  be- 
side which  she  had  passed  more  than  twenty  winters  of 
placid  life  and  sorrows  gently  but  bravely  borne.  Her 
means  were  ample  for  the  few  needs  of  herself  and  Mar- 
garet. The  parlor  contained  some  pieces  of  good  old 
furniture,  and  had  some  thick  rugs  on  its  worn  stone 
floor.  On  a  round  table  in  the  middle  stood  a  shaded 
lamp;  a  smaller  lamp  burned  on  the  mantelshelf  above 
the  quiet,  neat  woman,  as  she  sat  reading.  Occasionally, 
at  some  exclamation  from  her  niece,  she  would  put  down 
the  Herald  and,  removing  her  glasses,  watch  the  girl's 
hands  arranging  the  troublesome  hat.  Within  certain 


12  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

limits  she  understood  Margaret  thoroughly,  and  loved 
her  with  the  love  of  a  strong  nature  solitary  and  childless. 

"You'm  busy  to-night,  my  dear?" 

"Yes,  aunt,  it's  getting  that  shabby." 

"Well,  well,  there's  no  call  to  wear  it  out,  to  be 
sure." 

But  he  had  seen  her  in  the  hat,  and,  from  his  looks, 
it  suited  her:  only,  the  flowers  were  so  dingy  in  the 
light!  She  wondered  if  he  was  thinking  of  her:  and 
once  she  blushed  so  hot  she  hurried  from  the  room,  find- 
ing a  reason  therefor  in  the  opportune  absence  of  Tinker, 
the  cat,  from  his  usual  sleeping-place.  He  was  not  out- 
side when  she  opened  the  garden  door.  But  the  splendor 
of  the  night  drew  her  out.  Under  the  apple  branches 
she  stood  and  wondered  at  the  darkness  that  covered 
the  young  man  somewhere  in  the  north.  She  was  half 
afraid  to  think  of  him  while  she  was  with  her  aunt  in 
the  parlor,  now  that  blushing  had  begun. 

When  at  last  Miss  Deborah  Yeomans  rose  and  re- 
placed her  reading-glasses  in  their  case,  preparatory  to 
retiring  for  the  night,  Margaret  put  down  her  work  with 
an  inscrutable  air,  that  changed  to  one  of  a  dubious 
finality  after  a  further  visit  to  the  small  mirror,  and  fol- 
lowed her  aunt  upstairs. 

As  she  got  into  bed,  the  stars,  whose  advent  from 
shadowy  skies  had  synchronized  with  that  of  the  young 
man  from  a  shadowy  land,  seen  from  the  darkness  of 
her  room,  shone  with  a  supernatural  luster.  She  sat  up 
and  looked  at  them  burning,  to  her  quickened  senses, 
with  extraordinary  fire.  When,  at  last,  she  fell  asleep, 
she  dreamed  of  him,  hand  in  hand  with  her  through  her 
beloved  Midford  Holt. 


CHAPTER    II 

A  SPORTSMAN  IS  INDICATED 

HER  breakfast,  next  morning,  was  an  inconsiderable 
affair:  the  misty-bright  mirror  of  the  day  was  a  magnify- 
ing glass,  whereunder  the  hours  grew  into  unnatural  and 
repulsive  size.  She  decided  she  must  avoid  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  Crossways  for  the  rest  of  the  shooting. 

She  got  there  as  afternoon  drew  near  to  evening; 
and  rehearsed  her  experience  to  all  the  intensive  influences 
of  environment  and  association.  A  little  while,  and  she 
was  bound  northward  up  the  road.  After  covering 
nearly  a  mile  of  it  she  discovered  a  sudden  and  tremen- 
dous agitation :  a  figure  approaching  out  of  the  dusk  was 
undoubtedly  his.  With  hardly  less  of  certainty  her 
emotions  told  her  that  he  was  "coming  after"  herself; 
and  between  joy  and  confusion  the  furlong  or  so  that 
separated  them  when  she  made  such  discovery  was  too 
short  for  her  maidenly  reserve  to  rescue  her  from  her 
all  too  obvious  condition. 

He  saw  enough,  in  the  shining  eyes  and  red  face  of 
the  girl,  as  he  stopped  before  her,  to  whet  his  vanity 
and  his  appetite :  perhaps,  therefore,  he  did  not  see  the 
gentleness  of  a  trusting,  tender  woman  as  well.  Also, 
man  the  hunter  was  awake  in  him;  and  James  Burkett 
held  firm  opinions  as  to  the  hunted  entering  keenly  into 
the  spirit  of  the  chase.  Had  the  quarry  turned  and  fled 
him  there  and  then — away  through  the  gorse  and  grass, 
heading  for  the  woods — he  could  have  run  her  down  with 
a  zest  beyond  anything  his  occasional  days  with  the 
"Steyning  and  Horsham"  could  bring  him. 

Nevertheless,  their  talk  was,  for  the  nonce,  of  con- 


i4  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

ventional,  innocuous  things.  His,  by  now,  great  desire 
was  made  amenable  to  the  curb  by  a  sense  of  security :  a 
too  conformable  capture  was  repugnant  to  all  those  better 
qualities  of  a  sportsman  that  he  possessed.  Greatly  he 
prided  himself  on  his  being  a  sportsman,  and  with  a 
sincere  belief  that  he  approximated  to  that  highest  of 
ideals.  At  this  moment  he  was  considering  his  new 
powers  of  restraint  as  something  rather  fine  morally: 
the  temptation  was  a  bit  thick  for  any  man,  and  he  was 
not  a  bally  St.  Anthony,  by  Jove!  any  more  than  most 
men.  As  a  matter  of  fact  his  sensations  were  of  a  kind 
and  degree  much  the  same  as  those  of  the  rest  of  the 
Mammalia:  the  woman  at  his  side  felt  the  wonder,  the 
mystery,  the  beauty  of  bodily  passion  intensified  a  hun- 
dredfold because  idealized  by  love;  where  for  him  love 
was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  idealized  by  lust.  The 
sportsman  in  him  had  rather  a  poor  opinion  of  ideals, 
other  than  his  own — a  penchant,  not,  of  course,  peculiar 
to  sportsmen.  He  had  read  in  the  papers  that  a  race 
horse  just  dead  had  earned  during  his  life  half  a  million 
sterling  for  his  owner,  and,  in  the  next  column,  that  some 
poet's  or  other  artist's  life  and  work  had  been  prema- 
turely closed  by  neglect  and  poverty — some  man  who 
had  added  to  the  collective  consciousness,  present  and 
future,  of  his  kind  a  new  dignity,  a  new  beauty,  a  new 
justification  for  its  existence  and  for  his  own.  James 
Burkett  had  found,  in  the  former  case,  fresh  evidence  in 
support  of  his  idea  that  sport  was  the  nation's  highest 
attribute,  and,  in  the  latter,  only  another  instance  of  the 
"hopelessness"  of  "those  impractical  Johnnies."  In  his 
present  adventure  the  sportsman  had  already  indicated 
for  him  his  line  of  country.  If  there  were  anomalies 
therein,  perhaps  they  were  like  a  planet's,  and  might,  for 
practical  purposes,  be  disregarded.  Glory  be  to  the  God 
of  the  Practical !  Since  such  uncertainties  as  are  in  psy- 
chology are  by  his  aid  removed  to  the  proper  and  prac- 
tical place  for  them — a  purely  immaterial,  and  some  say 
(but  these  are  not  practical  men  usually)  mythical, 
heaven.  He  listened  eagerly  to  the  Past  in  his  blood, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  15 

although  he  refused  the  Future  a  hearing.  Although 
but  twenty-three  years  of  age  he  had  already  erected 
along  his  earthly  pilgrimage,  regardless  of  expense,  the 
most  modern  and  elaborate  of  abattoirs,  wherein  to  ad- 
minister a  quietus  on  occasion  to  that  anachorism  and 
anachronism  in  a  land  of  Commercial  Education  and  En- 
terprise— the  spiritual  ego,  once  yclept  the  Soul.  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  cite  him  as  an  example  of  a  gross  ma- 
terialism :  I  am  but  enunciating  some  of  his  many  canons 
of  Commonsense.  Neither  do  I  affirm  that  he  was  un- 
desirous  of  assimilating  anything  of  a  subtler  psychology 
than  is  found  in  sausage-meat,  or  of  appreciating  a 
deeper  futility  than  is  represented  by  all  the  old  anchors 
fast  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  If  he  had  not  acquired  the 
habit  of  subjective  thought,  I  know  of  no  good  reason  in 
his  life  and  ideals  that  required  it,  that  is  all. 

To  go  back  to  the  two  of  them  standing  there  on  the 
grassy  flints  of  the  old  Roman  road  that  had  so  few  of 
travelers  to  disturb  them.  Presently  the  girl  remarked, 
in  as  casual  a  tone  as  was  compatible  with  her  qualities: 

"I  wondered  if  I  should  meet  you,  maybe." 

"So  did  II"  Then,  he  added,  "I  came  to  look  for 
you." 

It  was  a  longish  walk  from  Ford  Hinton,  and  her 
blushes  began  afresh,  as  he  was  keen  to  see.  She  moved 
to  the  side  of  the  road,  and  began  plucking  long  bents 
among  the  fringe  of  wildwood  that  ran  beside  the  track 
just  there. 

"What's  your  name?    Do  tell  me." 

"Guess!" 

But  his  guesses  failed;  and  she  said  suddenly, 

"Margaret — Margaret  Yeomans." 

He  repeated  the  "Margaret"  in  a  way  that  em- 
boldened her  to  ask  his  own. 

"Jim."  With  a  sudden  impulse  of  magnanimity  he 
went  on,  "James  Burkett." 

Feeling  more  at  home  with  him  and  with  herself,  she 
began  to  fence,  half  playfully,  at  some  of  his  questions 
and  answers,  even  while  holiness  filled  her  heart.  She 


1 6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

was  barely  nineteen,  and  the  greatest  happiness  is  sel- 
dom entirely  serious  at  the  age. 

When  they  parted,  near  the  Crossways,  her  momen- 
tary hesitation  was  only  concerned  with  her  spoken  an- 
swer. She  agreed  to  meet  him  on  Moulton  Ridges  the 
next  afternoon  but  one. 

Factlis  est  discensus,  where  Love  and  Life — aged 
nineteen  and  twenty-three  respectively — meet  on  high 
hillsides  under  the  stars. 

James  Burkett  had  as  much  or  as  little  sexual  moral- 
ity as  the  average  healthy  young  men  of  his  class  and 
time.  He  divided  his  attention  between  the  Ford  Hinton 
pheasants  and  the  country  girl  in  Midford  Holt  valley. 
The  birds'  misery  was  a  thing  of  a  moment,  or  a  day  or 
two  at  most;  Margaret  grew  callous  to  their  sufferings 
— did  they  not  keep  him  from  her?  and  her  from  happi- 
ness? As  the  days  went  on  he  spent  less  and  less  of  his 
time  at  the  coverts,  and  more  and  more  of  it  among  the 
wastes  and  wildwood  and  downland  that  lay  about  Moul- 
ton Ridges. 

Squire  Radleigh — who,  in  his  day,  had  been  as  fond 
of  a  wench  as  he  was  at  this  time  of  the  whisky  that  had 
ousted  the  wine  of  his  earlier  years — troubled  little  about 
any  of  his  guests  so  long  as  they  brought  down  a  few 
birds  to  their  guns,  and  would  laugh  at  the  stories  which 
he  delighted  to  inflict  upon  the  variegated  society  that  an- 
nually made  use  of  his  hospitality  during  the  season.  He 
was  a  merry  old  rip — an  old-fashioned,  case-hardened  sin- 
ner, for  whom  the  probability  of  a  sudden  termination  to 
any  one  of  his  pet  anecdotes,  by  the  intervention  of  a  long- 
threatening  apoplexy,  had  as  little  effect  upon  his  spirits 
as  the  spirits  he  consumed  of  an  evening  had,  apparently, 
upon  his  head.  The  house  was  full;  and  Burkett  was 
seldom  missed. 

Margaret's  inventive  faculties  were  strained  to  the 
utmost  to  keep  pace  with  the  demands  for  dissimulation 
and  concealment  that  her  love  put  upon  her.  Aunt  Deb- 
orah, without  being  a  puritan,  would  have  made  matters 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  17 

distinctly  difficult  had  she  known  what  was  toward  with 
her  niece.  Discovery,  Margaret  knew,  was  inevitable 
sooner  or  later,  and  a  recognition  of  that  fact  convinced 
her  of  the  futility  of  attempting  to  satisfy  both  her  con- 
science and  her  love. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  she  had  reached  this  stage 
without  the  lashings  of  remorse.  She  loved  her  aunt  who 
had  been  so  long  her  mother  (her  mother  had  died  at  her 
birth)  with  a  very  real  love.  Between  the  two  were  many 
sympathies.  In  the  present  case  a  hitherto  unknown  re- 
serve had  come  over  the  girl.  At  the  back  of  her  mind 
the  sense  of  Consequence  troubled  her,  as  owls  may 
trouble  a  stargazer  when  they  scratch  the  silent  Empy- 
rean with  the  needy  discords  of  their  kind.  The  elder 
woman  would  have  insisted  on  the  importance  of  what 
was  for  the  nonce,  to  the  younger,  an  unessential,  but  one 
which  had  in  it  an  active  potentiality.  Aunt  Deb  would 
have  gone  through  the  uncut  leaves  of  the  girl's  romance 
with  a  ruthless  edge,  and  with  a  sound  of  things  that 
put  the  stars  away. 

She  had  been  brought  up  to  believe  that  "God  is 
Love."  She  was  not  quite  sure  what  God  was.  He 
would  be  very  angry  with  her  if  she  broke  His  laws,  she 
believed.  She  had  seen  His  anger  reflected  in  the  lives 
of  two  or  three  girls  in  her  own  neighborhood — in  their 
drawn  faces  and  in  a  peculiar  wildness  in  their  eyes — in 
their  evident  desire  to  avoid  public  recognition,  where, 
before,  they  had  been  as  eager  to  court  it.  She  remem- 
bered Hettie  Ryott,  in  the  chestnut  wood,  lying  on  her 
face  sobbing  her  heart  out,  and  asking  God  to  kill  her. 
She  had  been  fond  of  Hettie  from  the  day  of  that  girl's 
first  attendance  at  the  village  school,  whereto  went  Mar- 
garet, by  common  consent  a  great  book-learner  among 
them,  who,  for  the  most  part,  found  reading  difficult. 
Margaret's  description  of  the  new  girl  to  her  aunt  had 
been  to  the  effect  that  she  didn't  know  where  Wales  was, 
but  had  very  nice  hair.  In  the  course  of  a  day  or  two 
child  Margaret  had  assisted  child  Henrietta  in  the  ac- 
quisition of  geographical  axioms ;  and  the  two  had  found 


1 8  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

a  striking  similarity  in  the  texture  and  the  color  of  each 
other's  locks.  If  they  had  not  become  exactly  bosom 
friends  on  the  strength  of  it  (a  strain  of  coarseness  in 
Hettie  had  prevented  that)  Margaret  had  been  genuinely 
fond  of  the  other.  Her  discovery  in  the  chestnut  wood 
had  shocked  and  frightened  her,  the  more  so  because  Het- 
tie had  jumped  up  and  glared  at  her  like  "Lass" — 
Poacher  Alf's  lurcher  bitch — had  glared,  when  she  found 
that  animal,  with  its  hot  eyes  of  pain,  trapped  in  Burnt 
Hanger,  while  its  master  was  in  Shapston  goal,  and  Long 
Harry  the  keeper  had  shot  it. 

Aunt  Deborah  had  seized  the  opportunity  when  she 
had,  at  the  time,  mentioned  Hettie's  distress  to  that  good 
woman,  to  deliver  a  homily  on  the  wickedness  of  certain 
things,  and  God's  just  and  awful  punishment  upon  the 
delinquents.  (In  justice  to  Miss  Deborah  I  will  here 
state  that  not  only  did  she  firmly  believe  what  she  said 
to  be  the  truth,  but,  also,  that  she  as  firmly  believed  that 
she  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  the  Almighty  in  these  things 
as  that  she  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  her  neighbor  at 
the  next  cottage,  in  other  matters.)  She  honestly  ac- 
cepted the  divine  authority  with  as  little  doubt  of  its  truth 
as  of  her  own  humility  when  receiving  Holy  Communion; 
by  which  act  of  faith  or  blasphemy  the  poor  in  spirit 
became  the  legatees  of  a  quite  considerable  and  important 
inheritance,  to  wit,  an  everlasting  life.  Such  was  her 
creed;  and  if  her  humility  was  only  one  of  her  self-de- 
ceptions it  certainly  never  occurred  to  her  as  such.  She 
was  a  sincere  Christian,  and  while  her  faith  could 
not  destroy  her  natural  goodness  of  heart  it  was  too 
strong  not  to  assert  its  own  righteousness  on  occasion. 
Let  Hettie  Ryott  repent,  let  her  spend  her  life  in  re- 
penting, there  was  hope  for  her  in  another, — Miss  Deb- 
orah would  have  been  the  first  to  admit  it,  and  to  glorify 
the  graciousness  of  the  God  capable  of  such  magnanimity. 
But  it  was  "too  much  to  expect  that  respectable  folk 
would  be  wanting  to  associate  with  her,  more  especially 
they  with  maids  o'  their  own!"  No:  the  next  world  for 
Hettie  Ryott;  for  this — let  her  hide  her  shame  away 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  19 

from  honest  women.  Though  she  finished  up  her  earthly 
existence  in  a  Lock  hospital,  it  wouldn't  matter — pro- 
vided she  repented  before  the  end.  (A  curious  creed, 
and  one  not  entirely  without  its  encouragement  for  Lock 
hospitals;  as  its  belief  in  Immortality  is  not  without  its 
encouragement  for  bloody  wars.)  In  these  days,  when 
the  curses  of  Christianity,  with  the  infallible  homing  in- 
stinct of  their  kind,  are  more  under  consideration  than 
the  blessings  of  its  mystic  dove,  lest  Aunt  Deb  be  judged 
too  harshly,  I  will  add  on  her  behalf  that  at  least  she  had 
no  men  folk  about  her  to  influence  her  judgment  on  Het- 
tie  Ryott. 

Of  a  surety  the  case  of  Hettie  Ryott  would  now — if 
her  aunt  knew — be  cited  afresh  for  the  particular  edi- 
fication and  warning  of  Margaret  Yeomans.  The 
thought  confirmed  the  latter  in  her  secrecy.  No  matter 
what  she  was  to  come  to  she  loved  him,  she  would  al- 
ways love  him,  whatever  he  did,  or  whatever  her  aunt 
or  anyone  else  might  say.  In  secret,  Hettie  Ryott  had 
begun  to  surprise  her  into  something  akin  to  respect; 
till  she  remembered  that  it  had  been  rumored  to  have 
been  a  case  of  men  with  her:  whereupon  Margaret  was 
in  no  way  surprised  to  find  that  she  hated  her  for  such 
wickedness ;  and,  incidentally,  grew  averse  to  comparisons 
that  left  the  comparer  with  an  indescribable  thorn  some- 
where in  the  soul.  The  one  quality  she  might  ever  have 
in  common  with  the  prescribed  abject  of  years  before 
(similitude  between  her  hair  and  Hettie's  had  naturally 
departed  long  ago)  became  a  still  small  voice  within  that 
larger  voice  that  urges  woman  to  give  all.  She  was  of 
the  stuff  of  martyrs — a  class  to  be  found  more  among 
women  than  among  men — and  she  was  jealous  and  zeal- 
ous for  the  whole  principle  and  practice  of  martyrdom. 
If  the  latter  should  become  commoner  among  women  \ 
than  it  is  at  present  (which  God  forbid!)  it  may  lose  its 
vogue  for  no  more  reason  than  male  epicures  affect  in 
scorn  of  kippered  herrings,  which,  when  good,  are  a 
wholesome  and  nutritious  diet  as  certainly  as  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  sun  warms  the  ecliptic. 


20  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

With  a  hundred  "Hetties"  before  them  for  as  mani- 
fold a  moral,  the  "Margarets"  of  the  world  are  still 
prone  to  forget  all  but  the  promptings  of  the  larger  voice. 
This  Margaret,  meanwhile,  was  forgetting,  as  woman 
will  go  on  forgetting  while  Life  and  Love  remain  hu- 
man things;  while  opportunity  retains  its  time-honored 
if  otherwise  dishonorable  avocation,  and  man  his  virility 
and  sex-impulse;  while  woman's  love  is  tenderer  than 
Mrs.  Grundy's  lip; — until  the  aeons  of  effort  toward 
Duality,  that  have  left  still  for  a  sign  the  breast  mark  on 
the  male,  have  evolved  for  men  and  women  a  kindlier 
and  a  purer  philosophy  of  Sex  than  obtained  in  an  age 
when  the  supreme  principle  of  human  existence  was 
a  thing  to  be  deplored  and  even  hushed  up  in  "decent 
society" ;  a  society  whose  concept  of  morality  was 
based  on  a  curious  conglomerate  of  Genesiac  super- 
stition and  grocer-worship,  and  who  sought,  by  a  Vic- 
torian vagary  of  the  Jungle-Law,  to  hucksterize  man's 
meaning  for  ever  for  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
mankind. 

She  did  not  suppose  he  would  marry  her,  but  she  was 
by  nature  a  girl  for  whom  chastity  becomes  a  lesser  thing 
than  love.  Without  the  latter  the  former  had  been  a 
thing  accepted  without  much  thought  about  it.  But  with 
the  coming  of  her  man  had  commenced  the  vanguard  of  a 
host  of  blushes,  and  much  strange  desire  and  fear.  Then 
trust  in  her  love  had  put  away  fear  from  her  .  .  .  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  a  sense  of  superiority 
to  the  middle-aged,  a  primal  exaltation  that  she  told  her- 
self was  unworthy,  and  yet  one  which  brought  with  it 
somewhat  of  the  calm  strength  that  punctuates  and  ac- 
companies the  Elemental's  hour.  Then  pity  for  her  aunt 
touched  amid  her  own  heartstrings,  and  set  a  chord  cry- 
ing against  the  injustice  of  that  fate  which  darkens  the 
lives  of  so  many  women.  Her  eyes  had  grown  hot;  and 
her  hands  had  grown  cold  with  the  misery  she  had 
clenched  them  on.  Aunt  Deb  had  been  a  mother  to  her; 
and  yet  .  .  .  The  problem  is  an  old  one — older,  maybe, 
than  mentality. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  21 

Then,  on  her  nineteenth  birthday,  while  they  wan- 
dered from  the  old  Roman  way  toward  a  great  green 
light  along  the  sky,  low  on  the  woods  and  hills,  as  they 
passed  through  a  by-place  of  bourtrees  and  juniper  she 
felt  his  arms  about  her;  and  he  had  kissed  her  and 
told  her  that  he  loved  her, — as  he  actually  did  in  a 
sense. 

It  is  no  mere  sentimentality  to  record  that  she  would 
have  died  for  him  willingly  in  that  hour:  it  is  with  no  de- 
sire to  excuse  the  man  when  I  say  he  had  but  the  re- 
motest idea  of  the  nature  of  her  exaltation  while  she 
walked  beside  him  afterward,  her  hand  in  his  arm,  and 
with  her  soul  as  full  of  happiness  as  her  eyes  were  full 
of  the  splendor  of  the  west.  It  had  happened  as  she 
could  have  wished  it:  her  own  beloved  Holt  around  them: 
around  them,  too,  the  veils  of  twilight  whose  apparency 
moves  to  the  slow  breathings  of  Change,  imminent  and 
immanent,  about  the  world;  that  hour  of  wistful  wizardry 
so  many  of  humankind  repel  with  lighted  lamps  and 
blinds  drawn  close — that  stupendous  climacteric  where- 
through a  million  pass  daily,  unmoved,  unconscious, 
maybe,  of  aught  beyond  the  fact  that  evenings  draw  in 
or  evenings  draw  out,  though  even  London  or  what  men 
have  made  of  Lancashire  loses  under  its  influence  some- 
thing of  its  hopeless  and  astounding  ugliness.  The 
wonder  of  a  vague  of  windless  skies  hung  above  them 
with  an  empyreal  and  passionate  tenderness,  as  though 
emotive  over  some  impalpable,  some  pure  spirit  of  Color 
but  that  moment  born.  The  girl  rejoiced,  exulted  in  it 
all :  her  instincts  were  true :  she  felt  deeply  and  the 
heights  of  her  mood  were  proportionate,  for  all  her  in- 
capacity to  interpret  or  describe  in  words. 

"Don't  you  love  me,  Margaret?" 

She  had  not  spoken  since  his  kiss.  She  was  only  just 
beginning  to  realize  that  something  in  the  way  of  words 
was  due  to  him  from  her.  He  would  think  her  stupid. 
She  was  not,  but  too  happy  for  the  moment;  and  it  was 
not  easy  to  talk  about — it  was  her  first  kiss.  She  looked 
up  at  him  from  great  eyes  of  faith  and  wonder.  It  was 


22  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

as  much  as  she  dared,  a  hurried  glance,  that  hurt  him 
a  good  deal — years  afterward. 

He  repeated  his  question;  while  she  walked  with  her 
head  bent  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  tufts  of  grass  before 
her. 

"Yes."  She  got  the  word  out  at  last,  and  it  sounded 
a  poor  little  word  to  her  ears  when  it  was  said.  "Oh,  I 
do!  I  do!"  she  assured  him,  in  a  burst  of  feeling  that 
made  her  forget  any  uncertainties  of  etiquette  proper  to 
her  position.  "I  did!  The  very  first  time  you  spoke 
by  Crossways.  I  was  that  dreaming  about  you,  that  even- 
ing, though  never  I'd  set  eyes  on  you  afore  that.  But  I 
told  it  to  myself  ever  so,  he  would  come;  and  when  he 
came  it  was  you.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  do  love  ee  so!"  The 
last  sentence  was  a  breathless  whisper. 

For  James  Burkett  the  evenings  were  drawing  in; 
and  he  was  glad  of  it  chiefly  for  the  reasons  that  most 
lovers  are  glad  of  the  dark. 

They  wandered  about  for  an  hour,  with  kisses  fre- 
quent and  increasing  in  length  and  ardor,  and  with  much 
incoherence  for  them  both.  If  the  man  wondered  more 
than  once  how  it  would  end,  not  once  did  the  girl  see 
those  shadowy  wastes  that  lie  beyond  the  Midford  Holts 
of  the  world,  wherein  Sin  waits  for  the  woman  his  victim, 
and  Shame,  his  mother,  watches  with  calmly  mocking 
eyes. 


CHAPTER    III 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  NIGHT  ON  THREE  TREES 

GAMMER  POLGREAN  lived  at  the  cottage  nearest  the 
Yeomans.  She  was  of  great  and  unknown  age,  but  of 
extraordinary  vitality — a  big-framed  Amazon  of  a 
woman,  bearded  like  a  barbel,  in  two  gray  tufts  on  her 
bony  chin.  An  exploit  of  hers,  many  years  before,  was 
still  recounted  to  the  few  visitors  who  came  for  work  or 
pleasure  to  Midford;  was  even  yet  discussed  among  the 
inhabitants  themselves.  During  a  "ter'ble  starm,"  one 
midnight,  in  a  bad  year,  when  the  hay  harvest  had 
moldered  where  it  lay,  a  stranger  man  had  forced  his 
way  into  her  parlor:  the  lightning  had  shown  him  therein 
two  silver  teapots  much  prized  and  polished  by  their 
owner.  It  was  her  invariable  rule  never  to  "shut  out"  a 
storm:  in  her  theology  lightning  was  by  some  otherwise 
obscure  process  connected  with  the  eye  of  God;  and  she 
had  opened  her  heart  to  the  Lord  too  often  and  too  hon- 
estly "to  be  afeard."  Indeed,  she  rather  welcomed  such 
manifestation;  and  her  faith  was  in  nowise  weakened 
when  "Shapston  gurt  spire"  had  been  shattered  over  the 
very  heads  of  the  devout.  As  for  the  robber,  she  had 
met  him  in  a  hand  to  hand  combat  for  possession  of  the 
teapots,  in  the  midst  of  the  elemental  fire  and  brim- 
stone, and  inflicted  such  injuries  on  him  with  a  piece  of 
old  kibble-chain  that,  in  his  fear  and  agony,  he  had 
broken  loose  and  broken  his  leg  as  well  in  a  desperate  at- 
tempt to  escape  the  iron  vengeance  that  circled  about 
him.  Thereupon  she  had  laid  him  upon  the  sofa,  set 
his  limb  with  staves  from  a  spare  butter  keg,  salved  his 
bruises,  and  given  him  a  sleeping-draught  of  her  own 

23 


24  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

concoction  the  wretched  man  had  swallowed  like  a  lamb. 
Next  day  she  had  driven  him  to  the  hospital.  Her  more 
intimate  acquaintances  had  been  privileged  to  view  the 
chain  hanging  at  the  head  of  her  bed  ever  afterward. 

The  eyes  in  her  swarthy  face  were  as  black  as  eyes 
may  be,  and  her  black  hair,  though  thin,  was  without  a 
paler  streak.  She  had  given  three  sons  and  two  grand- 
sons to  the  services  and  a  bloody  death;  and  now,  a  lone 
woman,  the  last  of  her  race,  she  waited  dauntlessly  the 
coming  of  the  last  Enemy.  She  was  more  feared  than 
loved,  perhaps,  in  Midford,  for  a  fierceness  in  her  aspect 
and  grim  austerity  in  her  everyday  speech.  But  when 
there  was  trouble  for  the  cottagers  they  turned  to  her 
as  to  a  leader.  In  fevers  and  lyings-in  she  was  asked 
for  from  miles  around;  there  was  something  heroic  about 
the  old  woman  that  greatly  impressed  her  neighbors, 
death  seemed  to  keep  so  far  away  from  her  who  had 
given  him  so  many  hostages.  When  occasion  called  for 
it  none  could  be  gentler:  she  never  lost  patience  or  tem- 
per; and  it  was  well  known  that  she  had  strange  power 
with  herbs  and  beasts. 

Not  seldom  had  Margaret  gone  with  her  in  her 
botanical  expeditions,  and  had  accounted  it  an  honor,  since 
Gammer  otherwise  invariably  went  alone.  She  was  al- 
ways gentle  with  the  girl,  explaining  to  her  much  of  the 
lore  of  wild  plants;  but  latterly  Margaret  had  seen  in 
her  a  source  of  danger,  given  as  the  Gammer  was  to  wan- 
dering through  the  Holt  in  search  of  simples,  maned 
agarics,  warty  caps  and  their  tribe.  The  first  high  winds 
of  the  fall,  and  her  tall  figure,  bent  beneath  a  sack  of 
broken  boughs,  would  be  abroad  early  and  late  about 
the  wild:  she  gathered  with  her  own  hands,  and  scorned 
assistance. 

But  on  the  afternoon  following  that  of  the  preceding 
chapter  she  had  arranged  to  drive  Miss  Deborah  into 
Shapston ;  and  they  would  not  be  back  before  eight. 

The  girl  had  assisted  her  aunt  into  the  Gammer's 
gig — in  whose  shafts  an  ancient  mare,  foaled  twenty  years 
back  in  Midford,  still  did  good  service  for  her  aged 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  25 

mistress — and  she  now  stood  watching  them  draw  slowly 
up  to  the  Crossways.  At  last  they  swung  round  on  the 
right  hand  road  and  disappeared  among  the  beechwoods 
toward  Shapston,  some  five  miles  away.  They  had  taken 
that  road  for  the  purpose  of  making  a  call  at  a  friend's 
place :  they  would  return  by  the  other  and  shorter  route. 
The  coast  was  clear  north  of  the  cottage. 

Margaret  went  indoors,  and  did  her  hair  afresh  with 
much  care  and  some  blushes  during  the  various  opera- 
tions involved  in  the  process.  It  was  the  day  after  her 
birthday,  and  her  entry  into  her  twentieth  year  was  to 
her  as  pregnant  with  the  potentialities  of  happiness  as 
their  wedding-morn  is  to  some  women.  Very  pretty  and 
lovable  she  looked  as  she  went  about  the  house  after- 
ward, singing  to  herself  in  a  low,  sweet  voice  she  had. 

The  skies  of  soft  gray  cloud  that  moved  slowly  east- 
ward; the  clear  light  in  the  west  where  the  dark  woods 
were  plain  against  the  green  sides  of  Saxonbury  and 
Longbarrow;  the  streams  of  mild  air  flushing  the  valley 
with  a  sense  as  of  the  spirits  of  the  South  and  West  mov- 
ing upon  invisible  wings;  all  nature  seemed  to  her  to  be 
in  sympathy  with  her  project,  as  she  had  waited,  with 
tremulous  impatience,  for  her  aunt's  departure  and  for 
her  own  ramble  through  the  afternoon  and  evening  with 
her  lover. 

She  had  arranged  to  meet  him  in  a  bridle-road  that 
wound  under  the  bracken-covered  eminence  locally  known 
as  Three  Trees,  from  the  three  tall  pines  on  its  summit. 
To  the  west  of  the  Ford  Hinton  road,  Three  Trees  lay 
among  heathy  wastes  at  the  northwest  end  of  the  valley, 
some  three  miles  from  Stoke  Midford.  A  little  used  way, 
often  deserted  for  days  together  by  human  life,  the  track 
started  from  the  Crossways,  and,  slowly  rising  through 
gorse  and  heather  and  birchwoods,  came  out  by  the  tree- 
crowned  knoll  that  was  the  highest  point  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. It  was  a  favorite  walk  with  Margaret,  this 
particular  bridle-road.  From  long  acquaintance  she  was 
familiar  with  its  every  aspect,  its  every  mood — and  that 
such  places  have  moods  of  their  own  is  well  understood 


26  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

by  those  who  can  understand  these  things  at  all.  Book  in 
hand,  she  would  go  softly  along  its  grassy  miles,  where 
behind  the  woods  would  come  King  Arthur  and  his  men 
and  women,  fresh  from  the  pages  of  Malory,  and  in- 
vested with  all  the  magic  freshness  of  things  that  never 
grow  old  for  the  young  in  years  or  heart, — with  an  atmos- 
phere of  more  than  nitrogen  and  its  kindred  elements,  a 
medium  as  beyond  analysis  as  it  is  beyond  common  air. 
In  these  days  a  plowman  may  breathe  it  more  easily, 
perhaps,  than  a  prince  (if  princehood  be  conditional  upon 
evolution,  and  the  "merchant"  variety  the  last  word  in 
the  process)  :  at  least  I  have  known  plowmen  who  did 
indubitably  so  breathe,  while  within  the  same  oxgate  a 
veritable  majesty  of  Mammon  fumed  through  a  shilling 
cigar  at  the  sun-filled  furrows,  because  his  two  thousand 
pound  motor,  silent  but  for  stench  in  the  road,  had  failed 
to  fill  his  guts  punctually  to  the  minute,  by  breaking  down 
miles  from  anywhere. 

But  to  this  green  grown  track  there  came  neither 
teams  of  horses  nor  oxen  for  the  plowing:  its  quiet 
grass  had  never  felt  the  vibrant  coming  of  the  motor  car. 
Instead,  its  wild  uncut  hedges  were  a  main  highway  for 
many  birds:  with  green  linnets,  yaffles,  fieldfares,  and 
their  kind,  it  was  the  chief  thoroughfare  from  the  low 
lying  lands  by  Midford  to  the  hill  tops,  and  over  into  the 
cultivated  districts  beyond.  Rabbits  haunted  it  in  great 
numbers :  stoats  and  weasels  took  there  a  frequent  toll : 
squirrels  would  gallop  wildly  in  hundred  yard  bursts  of 
brown  excitement  before  the  intruding  alien:  innumera- 
ble things  moved  in  its  grasses,  only  to  vanish  ere  the 
wayfarer  had  reached  the  spot  where  they  had  been.  Like 
all  such  lonely  and  delightful  places  it  was  full  of  spirits 
and  voices;  and  Margaret  would  watch  and  listen  at  its 
bends,  while  on  before  her  or  behind  her  curious  thrushes, 
intently  staring,  would  watch  and  listen  to  the  Unknown 
also.  And  now  her  own  Knight  was  to  meet  her  there 
alone ! 

All  the  hamlet  was  quiet — the  women  busy  indoors, 
the  men  gone  for  the  afternoon  to  the  fields.  Neverthe- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  27 

less,  the  girl,  in  a  cautious  mood,  avoided  the  road  up 
to  the  Crossways.  As  the  clock  struck  three  she  went 
down  the  garden  at  the  back,  after  shutting  up  the  fowls 
against  a  possible  fox,  through  the  rushy  ground,  and  on 
into  a  narrow  footway  running  through  the  beechwoods 
to  the  Shapston  road.  Crossing  that,  she  continued 
through  the  woods.  Presently,  well  out  of  sight  from 
the  houses,  she  turned  to  the  left,  at  right  angles,  and 
crossed  the  valley,  gaining  the  bridle-road  to  Three 
Trees  without  having  seen  a  soul.  As  the  distance  from 
Stoke  Midford  increased  and  she  drew  toward  their 
trys  ting-pi  ace  the  loneliness  of  the  spot  assumed  a 
friendly  air,  and  she  flushed  with  anticipation.  At  last, 
as  she  rounded  the  corner  of  a  wood,  the  three  pines 
showed  their  dark  plumed  heads  and  gaunt  red  trunks 
less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  A  man's  figure  moved 
out  from  under  the  trees,  and  came  swiftly  down  the 
ocher-colored  slopes  of  bracken  toward  her. 

She  quickened  her  steps,  and  rosy  with  her  walk  and 
the  joy  of  meeting  stood  before  him. 

He  drew  her  into  the  shadow  of  some  thorn  trees, 
and  held  her  to  him,  drunk  with  possession  and  her  sweet 
fresh  beauty.  Few  men,  instinct  with  the  normal  desires 
of  young  manhood,  wish  to  renounce  their  heritage  of 
all  the  ages  when  Opportunity  enables  them  to  claim 
their  bequest.  Had  Margaret  and  her  lover  met  among 
suburban  surroundings  he  might  never  have  looked  at 
her  as  he  was  looking  at  her  now,  but  the  web  of  Cir- 
cumstance was  closing  its  meshes  tightly  about  the  youth- 
ful pair  whose  passion  found  expression  amid  the  elemen- 
tal influences  of  a  lonely  land.  That  compromise  which 
Mammon-worshiping  civilization  has  effected  with  Na- 
ture by  appointing  an  unnatural  continence  to  be  plague- 
in-chief  of  Respectability  and  merry-andrew  of  Morality, 
was  fast  losing  its  traditional  significance  for  James  Bur- 
kett,  while  the  wild  got  to  work  in  his  blood  as  never 
before. 

For  a  time  she  hung  submissively  in  his  arms.  Free- 
ing herself  suddenly,  she  asked  in  a  low  voice: 


28  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"James,  do  you  really  and  truly  love  me?" 

"Yes,  Margaret!"  The  words  came  mechanically — 
his  articulation  drowsy  with  the  drugs  of  sense :  and  then, 
her  absence  from  his  arms  awakening  the  fierceness  of 
interrupted  longing,  he  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her 
mouth  and  hair  and  eyes  as  man  has  kissed  woman  any 
time  this  past  ten  thousand  years  or  so,  or  since  mouths 
and  eyes  and  hair  existed  to  be  kissed. 

Her  skin  bore  witness  to  her  body's  thrall — the  quick 
blood  of  the  girl  rising  like  a  glowing  wave  on  her  throat 
and  cheeks,  to  spend  itself  in  the  kisses  with  which  her 
hot  lips  sought  his  own. 

The  light  in  her  eyes  grew  dark  with  trouble.  James 
Burkett  remembered  he  was  "a  gentleman."  He  re- 
leased her,  and  turned  away,  to  strike  blindly  about  the 
place  with  his  walking-stick. 

Margaret,  with  the  maternal  instinct  of  the  natural 
woman  quickening  within  her  to  the  hurrying  heart  of 
passion,  realized  the  struggle  eloquent  in  his  action.  To 
her  the  man  became  merged  in  the  erring  child,  and,  full 
of  pity  for  him,  she  stepped  into  the  track  again,  and 
stood  waiting. 

"Jim!"  she  called  to  him,  dropping  the  "James"  for 
the  first  time. 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Shall  we  go?" 

He  came  to  her;  and  they  wandered  on  toward  the 
pines  hand  in  hand:  it  was  her  own  that  had  sought  his. 
He  held  it  so  tightly  that  she  could  not  have  released  it 
had  she  wished.  She  did  not  wish,  the  desire  for  physical 
contact  with  the  object  of  her  love  predominant  in  her. 

At  the  foot  of  the  knoll  on  which  the  three  trees  stood 
they  stopped,  listening  vaguely  to  the  tune  the  southwest 
wind  brushed  from  the  stirring  clusters  of  foliage — that 
perplexing  if  monotonous  rhythm  whose  elusiveness  is 
so  strangely  akin  to  the  sea's.  Then,  remembering  that 
the  hilltop  was  visible  for  miles  in  some  directions,  they 
turned  into  the  birchwoods  to  the  right,  and  sat  in  a 
limb  of  a  tree  flung  out  low  down  along  the  ground. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  29 

"What  do  they  say,  Jim — the  pines?" 

"Lord  knows,  dear!  ^Why?" 

"I  don't  know.  Jim?" — her  head  was  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Will  you  forget  when — when  you  go  back  to  Lon- 
don?" 

"Forget?    No  fear!     Never,  Margaret!" 

She  sighed. 

"What  was  that  for  ?"    He  kissed  her. 

"It  seems  too  good  to  last — this,  Jim!" 

His  arm  tightened  round  her,  and  he  kissed  her  again. 

The  day  was  going,  and  the  gray  above  had  lost  its 
silver  light  along  the  ridges  of  cloudland.  While  they 
sat  gazing  westward  a  long  red  stripe  spread  slowly — 
the  white  limbs  of  the  birches  glowing  as  the  west  bared 
its  bosom  to  the  setting  sun.  The  cloud  shadows  passed; 
presently  a  myriad  feathery  twigs  were  etched  clearly 
against  a  pale  turquoise  sky  that  changed  into  a  paler 
green  beneath,  and  from  that  into  a  ruddy  gold.  The 
sun  was  already  down  behind  Three  Trees,  but  the  after- 
glow streamed  through  the  almost  leafless  wood  and  lit 
up  the  rapt  face  of  the  girl  with  a  glory  of  its  own. 

He  had  as  little  of  the  artistic  temperament  in  him 
as  is  usually  associated  with  his  class.  He  could  appre- 
ciate beauty,  but  the  term  was  for  him  chiefly  indicative 
of  females  in  tights,  or  without.  For  him  the  country 
could  be  pretty  enough  in  its  way,  provided  there  was 
something  to  be  done  to  death.  Motoring,  in  fifty  miles 
he  would  see — trees  sometimes,  clouds  or  blue  sky,  bits  of 
grass  or  heath,  cottages,  woods  and  fields.  Once,  when 
"he  was  doing  forty  or  so,  down  Bolney,"  he  had  nearly 
run  over  a  child.  There  was  no  one  else  in  sight,  but 
the  fear  in  the  little  one's  face  had  made  his  own  red 
afterward  with  shame  of  a  kind  that  had  cured  him  of  his 
lust  for  speed  for  more  than  a  week.  On  reflection  it 
occurred  to  him  that  to  beat  out  the  budding  life  of  a 
human  being  was  hardly  a  seemly  or  a  satisfactory  item 
in  'iis  otherwise  stupendous  achievement  of  getting  to 


30  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Brighton  in  seven  and  a  half  minutes  faster  time  than 
his  previous  best,  in  spite  of  the  difficulty  of  having  all 
the  day  before  him.  But  there,  if  all  motorists  are  poten- 
tial assassins,  it  is  that  the  breed  of  motorcars  may  be 
improved,  even  though  a  thousand  or  so  of  pedestrian 
trespassers  per  annum  be  exterminated  in  the  improve- 
ment. 

He  was  certainly  no  artist,  he  would  have  affirmed 
his  innocence  in  that  direction,  possibly  in  terms  of  the 
office  boy,  since  his  attitude  toward  aesthetics  in  general 
resembled  somewhat  that  youth's  well-known  contempt 
for  such  matters.  Nevertheless,  the  presence  of  the 
beautiful  intruded  itself  now  to  insistence  upon  such 
aesthetic  faculties  as  he  possessed;  and  he  knew  some- 
thing approaching  the  exaltation  of  a  more  spiritual  love 
when  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  transfigured  face  beside 
him.  For  a  moment  other  worlds  opened  to  him — a 
vague  conception  of  an  ideal,  a  real,  shining  behind  the 
material,  which,  generally,  comprised  the  alpha  and 
omega  of  his  scheme  of  things,  hung  like  light  about  her. 
Had  he  been  ten  years  older,  and  his  intellect  propor- 
tionately developed,  he  might  have  read  aright  the  signs 
and  portents  of  the  Great  Enigma.  As  it  was,  he  was 
just  a  healthy  young  animal,  for  whom  ideas  were  in 
the  nature  of  flies  on  the  back  of  his  head — things  to  be 
flicked  off,  and  in  whom  the  wine  of  life  foamed  strongly 
in  a  cataract  of  sense  across  his  eyes;  for  at  three-and- 
twenty,  to  men  of  his  type,  the  material  is  the  one  and 
only  reality,  and  satiety  has  not  then  realized  either 
the  vacuum  created  in  its  consummation,  or  that  the 
writing  on  the  walls  of  the  house  of  life  is  mostly  re- 
markable for  the  frequent  occurrence  of  two  words,  Cm 
bono. 

Yet  there  had  been  the  flash  of  a  Divine  vouchsafed 
to  his  vision;  and  the  memory  of  it  in  after  years  was 
as  the  memory  of  a  world  of  greater  suns  than  ours. 
He  did  not  think  of  her  as  a  future  wife — he  did  not  think 
of  the  future  at  all.  To  him  she  was  the  personification 
of  the  irresistible  Now — as  the  present  rose  from  seme- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  31 

thing  that  was  of  the  past,  and,  with  unseen  hands,  ob- 
scured the  features  of  the  Yet  To  Be. 

With  women  these  things  are  different — at  least,  so 
they  have  told  me;  whether  they  have  deceived  me,  or 
themselves,  or  not,  I  do  not  know.  The  thesis  in  which 
it  is  maintained,  by  certain  erudite  gentlemen  who  have 
devoted  their  minds  to  the  study  of  Biology,  that  the  Fe- 
male is  the  parent  type  from  which  duality  of  the  sexes 
has  been  evolved,  may  contain  within  its  limits  the  true 
explanation  of  many  things  otherwise  inscrutable  to  the 
mentality  of  the  male. 

The  shadows  of  night  came  swiftly  along  the  earth 
through  the  woods,  where  they  gathered  head,  and,  like 
a  cloudy  host,  filled  every  brush  and  brake  around.  A 
star  hanging  low  above  dim  trees  to  the  southwest  stained 
the  dusk  with  a  soft  greenish  fire.  Darker  grew  the 
dome  of  inviolate  blue  above,  till  from  its  sapphire  slopes 
there  started  a  pageant  of  pale  fire — the  coming  of  a 
myriad  stars.  Half  unconsciously  they  saw  the  scene 
changing  before  their  eyes ;  and  a  hush  as  though  all  the 
winds  kept  quiet  made  them  modulate  their  voices,  until 
even  their  whispers  ceased  and  they  clung  to  each  other 
in  a  silent  ecstasy. 

Margaret  was  a  pure  woman.  I  do  not  wish  to  con- 
vey the  idea  that  her  purity  was  of  that  exalted  kind  to 
which  some  of  her  sisters  of  a  more  civilized  type  may, 
and  do,  so  justifiably  lay  claim.  Her  purity  was  not  that 
which  instinctively  lifts  its  skirts  for  fear  of  possible  de- 
filement when  passing  one  of  those  "necessary  evils"  con- 
spicuous in  the  neighborhood  of  Piccadilly,  and  which, 
secure  in  its  armor  of  a  perfect  innocence,  can,  and  does, 
unconsciously  hawk  its  own  physical  and  other  attractions 
through  the  highways  and  byways  of  the  matrimonial 
market. 

The  love  which  gives  all  unasked  is  a  low,  primitive 
kind  of  love — possibly  not  devoid  of  redeeming  features 
in  the  days  when  refusal  meant  a  tap  on  the  head  from 
a  club  or  stone  hatchet.  Now  that  the  ruder  weapons 
have  been  discarded  almost  universally  in  favor  of  the 


32  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

high  symbolism  expressive  in  the  use  of  the  auctioneer's 
hammer,  it  is  different.  Every  woman  who  surrenders 
herself  to  her  lover  "free,  gratis,  and  for  nothing"  is 
worthy  only  of  the  streets,  where — fortunately  for  so- 
ciety— such  love  is  easily  taught,  through  necessity,  the 
really  refining  and  humanizing  influences  of  the  Ideal 
Commercial  as  the  one  and  only  true  Ethic  of  sexual  law. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  did  not  come  to  the  streets, 
and  I  think  it  is  only  honest  on  my  part  to  inform  the 
reader  at  once,  lest  it  be  thought  I  am  desirous  of  arous- 
ing sympathy  on  her  behalf  in  people  for  whom  her  pun- 
ishment was,  comparatively,  no  punishment  at  all,  but 
rather  in  the  nature  of  a  lucky  and  undeserved  es- 
cape. 

Obedient  to  some  subtle  instinct,  they  found  them- 
selves on  the  hill  beneath  the  canopy  of  pines.  Out  there 
in  the  open  the  night  wind  crept  wistfully  about  the  hills, 
and  from  the  black  shadows  above  their  heads  the  song, 
with  its  strange  burden  of  indeterminable  things,  mur- 
mured its  ceaseless  message  through  the  dark. 

For  a  while  they  stood  watching  northward,  where 
the  Titanic  plow  drove  its  endless  furrow  through 
space  and  time.  Far  beneath  them  the  hillsides  dropped 
away  into  Cimmerian  plains,  the  mystery  of  night  in- 
vesting with  something  of  her  majesty  even  the  common- 
places of  landscape. 

That  harmony  of  the  stellar  spaces — the  harmony  of 
silent  music  audible  through  visions  of  sense  and  sense 
of  vision  to  the  soul;  the  infinities  of  the  night  trans- 
muted to  a  mosaic  of  silver  stained  with  blue,  that  makes 
the  very  stars  seem  near,  and  planets  lamps  that  hang 
upon  the  outskirts  of  terrestrial  realms;  that  intensity  of 
clearness  found  only  in  high  places,  and  that,  literally, 
by  light  of  stars: — in  such  environments  the  soul  must 
be  but  a  dull  mirror,  indeed,  that  reflects  not  something 
of  the  eternal  fires  that  beacon  the  immensities  of  In- 
finitude. In  such  moments  the  lesser  things  of  life  shrink 
to  their  truer  proportions  in  the  perspective  of  the  Eter- 
nal, before  an  exaltation  of  being  fanned  to  fervor  by 


•THRACIAN  SEA"  33 

suggestive  forces,  impalpable  in  space,  that  pass  through 
all  the  gates  of  sense  unchallenged  to  the  soul.  Some 
consciousness  of  ties  that  bind  a  stellar  ray  to  earth,  and 
man  to  the  Immense;  some  half  regarded  thought  be- 
gotten by  a  wish  that  had  a  star  for  sire; — of  such  things 
is  that  mist  of  dreams  woven  of  Starlight  around  the 
sense  and  soul  of  mortal  man  and  maid. 

It  has  been  said  that  every  man  in  love  has  something 
of  poetry  in  him.  For  James,  under  normal  conditions, 
Shakespeare  was  a  clever  sort  of  Johnny,  "Paradise 
Lost"  a  penal  code.  Yet,  as  he  stood  there  with  the  girl 
whose  love  for  himself  awakened  beneath  the  vanity  of 
the  male  an  answering  echo  in  his  soul,  though  dim  and 
as  but  the  shadow  of  a  sound  compared  with  the  paeans 
of  elemental  rapture  surging  through  Margaret's,  he, 
too,  felt  something  of  the  magnetism  of  the  night  draw- 
ing at  his  fibers. 

When,  presently,  he  whispered  to  her  she  smiled,  her 
eyes  full  of  tender  tumult  as  she  half  leaned,  half  hung 
in  his  arms,  where  he  stood  with  his  back  against  one 
of  the  trees. 

The  wind  brushed  a  wisp  of  her  hair  across  his  hot 
face,  bending  close  above  her  own,  and  he  tingled  as 
at  the  touch  of  a  flame.  Her  eyes  clung  to  his,  spell- 
bound in  a  trance  of  passion  that  had  forgotten  all  else 
but  the  joy  of  mingling.  For  a  moment  he  fought  back 
the  rising  tide  that  was  to  overwhelm  them  both;  then, 
forgetting  everything,  he  claimed  her  warm  responsive 
body  for  his  own. 

From  far  away  the  harsh  screech  of  a  pheasant  came 
down  the  wind — to  the  country-bred  girl  a  sound  ominous 
with  a  foreboding  born  of  the  bird's  well-known  deser- 
tion of  his  mates.  She  shivered  with  the  chill  of  a  newly 
awakened  agony,  and  then  in  a  revulsion  of  feeling 
swayed  piteously  toward  him. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  James  Burkett  knew 
the  real  meaning  of  remorse.  He  looked  away  so  that 
he  might  not  meet  her  eyes.  The  next  moment  she  had 


34  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

drawn  his  head  down  on  to  her  breast,  and  he  knew  that 
she  was  crying  silently. 

The  dust  that  rhymeth  with  thy  name  is  thy  symbol, 
and  yet  ...  Art  thou  a  bitter  god?  Whence  comest 
thou?  And  goest  thou  whither?  Art  thine  eyes  blind 
with  the  weariness  of  aeons  of  dead  dawns?  or  haply  hath 
too  much  watching  for  the  darkness,  across  too  many 
sunsets,  stained  thy  sight?  Scorned  thou  art  of  the  chil- 
dren of  earth,  and  yet  .  .  .  Art  thou  a  scornful  thing, 
or  one  exceeding  great  beyond  all  other  gods  that  be? 
Art  but  a  goad  in  the  hands  of  the  Unseen,  who  with 
thee  drives  his  children,  with  stripes,  along  life's  high- 
way to  their  unknown  goal?  Or  art  thou  something  be- 
yond which  the  mind  of  man  goeth  not — great  and  mer- 
ciless? What  are  mercy,  or  goodness,  or  virtue  to  thee? 
v  11  these  thou  begettest,  and  with  thine  own  hands  slayest 
L!IOU  them.  Shalt  not  thou,  too,  be  slain?  Of  Time,  per- 
:.aps?  Haply  thou  canst  not  die?  Lieth  there  thy  pun- 
ishment? And  if  thou  shalt  die,  shall  not  all  goodness, 
as  all  evil,  die  with  thee?  Yea,  for  after  thy  death — 
only  the  gray  silences,  wherein  the  dust  shall  breed  nor 
worm  nor  any  germ  of  life;  where  are  no  sins,  nor  is 
there  any  virtuous  thing.  Art  thou  not  everywhere — 
upon  the  city's  pavements,  and  amid  the  wild  places  of 
the  earth?  I  have  heard  thy  feet  brushing  past  me  in 
the  night;  and  lo,  thy  hair  was  wound  about  the  stars. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE   FACE  OF  A  CHILD 

THEY  were  happy:  very  happy  the  girl  was,  after  the 
first  shock  of  her  altered  life  had  passed,  with  happi- 
ness that  had,  more  especially  before  her  aunt's  quiet 
face  or  during  the  loneliness  of  her  own  night  hours,  a 
certain  desperation  in  it.  James  was  happy  too,  with  a 
happiness  for  which  surrounding  circumstances  were 
largely  responsible. 

Out  there  in  the  friendly  bosom  of  the  lonely  hills,  in 
the  forgotten  places  of  the  world  such  as  were  in  Mid- 
ford  Holt — with  a  loving  and  simple  woman  beside  him, 
and  a  hundred  miles  of  hill  and  dale  and  woodland  be- 
tween him  and  his  suburban  home,  where  the  Grocer-God 
moved  majestically  to  the  brass  band  musics  of  his  golden 
syrup-and-tomato-colored  wings,  Pan  was  all  powerful 
and  love  an  all-sufficing  thing. 

Then  they  were  found  out — at  least,  suspicion,  the 
forerunner  of  that  process  was  awakened. 

Dinner  at  seven  was  an  institution  at  the  squire's. 
Twice  in  a  week  James,  one  of  the  youngest  men  in  the 
party,  had  been  guilty  of  a  lapse  in  that  direction,  and 
his  excuses  were  in  themselves  sufficient  to  arouse  sus- 
picion in  his  host.  He  entered  the  billiard-room  one 
night  as  the  squire  was  attempting,  in  one  of  the  pauses 
of  an  improbable  story,  an  equally  improbable  cannon. 
The  squire's  billiards  was  as  unique  as  were  his  anec- 
dotes. The  ancient  sinner  looked  up  at  the  interruption 
— the  stroke  resulting  in  a  lovely  "leave"  for  his  oppo- 
nent. Therefore,  for  relief,  he  turned  instinctively  away 

35 


36  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

from  the  table,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  James  as  the  latter 
was  helping  himself  to  a  whisky  and  soda. 

"Hulloa,  Jimmy!  Where  have  you  been  lately?" 
Then,  seeing  the  young  man's  color  rising,  he  burst  out 
laughing  with:  "Who's  the  filly,  lad,  eh?" 

Now  James  knew  his  man  pretty  well,  and  knew  that, 
although  good-natured  to  a  fault  in  some  things,  he  would 
have  his  joke.  Indeed,  the  old  man  was  a  notorious  char- 
acter in  that  part  of  the  county  among  the  local  people  of 
his  own  standing,  many  of  whom  either  studiously 
avoided  him  or  openly  ignored  him  in  their  outraged  de- 
cency; though  if  the  squire's  description  of  some  of  his 
neighbors  was  as  literally  correct  as  it  was  emphatically 
delivered,  illegitimacy  had  been  the  rule  rather  than  the 
exception  in  their  families  for  many  generations.  There 
was  something  innate  in  him  that  was  evil,  brutal,  de- 
graded. And  yet  men  liked  him  for  a  while, — men  who 
were  fond  of  sport,  that  is.  He  was  certainly  a  sports- 
man. He  had  lost  and  won  a  fortune  on  the  turf;  had 
fought  in  his  young  days  till  a  battered  wreck,  or  a  bloody 
victor  over  an  equally  battered  antagonist:  in  spite  of  his 
excesses  he  even  now  retained  much  of  his  nerve  with  a 
horse  and  his  skill  with  a  gun.  He  was  a  shining,  a  lurid 
example  of  those  animal  spirits  which  in  some  natures  do 
duty  for  happiness.  James  had  often  laughed  at  the  old 
boy's  freedom  of  speech,  and  at  the  local  coloring  with 
which  he  loved  to  depict  the  real  or  imaginary  amours 
of  his  guests.  The  squire  had  his  good  points,  but  in 
sexual  morality  he  was  deficient.  But  this  was  different : 
James  had  sufficient  love  for  the  girl  he  had  seduced  to 
shrink  from  the  thought  of  her  being  made  a  butt  for  the 
ribald  witticisms  of  old  Radleigh.  He  flushed  hotly  as  the 
laugh  went  round  the  table  against  him,  and  men  older 
than  himself,  and  comparative  strangers,  assumed  an  air 
of  familiarity  and  interest  toward  him  which  was  ex- 
asperating to  a  young  man  who  had  sufficient  decency 
in  his  nature  to  regret,  for  the  girl's  sake,  an  act  that 
he  did  not  for  his  own — yet. 

He  laughed  the  matter  off — the  more  easily  as  the 


'THRACIAN  SEA"  37 

squire's  opponent  had  got  the  balls  well  in  hand  and 
was  scoring  rapidly;  and,  in  the  possibilities  of  a  big 
break,  the  subject  was  forgotten  for  a  time;  but  he  knew 
that  he  would  be  a  marked  man  during  the  rest  of  his 
stay. 

He  had  arranged  to  meet  her  the  following  after- 
noon on  the  Stoke  Midford  side  of  Three  Trees — their 
favorite  trysting  place.  As  luck  would  have  it,  he  had 
only  learnt  that  evening  that  some  of  the  men  at  the 
squire's  were  driving  over  to  Langley  Warren — a  place 
nearer  Midford,  on  the  hills  known  as  Rook's  Down, 
at  the  west  side  of  the  valley — about  the  same  hour  next 
day,  and  the  risk  of  discovery  to  Margaret  was  con- 
siderable. The  brake  would  go  by  way  of  Three  Trees; 
if  he  was  to  be  present  for  lunch,  and  started  off  on  foot 
directly  afterward,  it  would  overtake  him.  If  he  fol- 
lowed it  the  girl  would  be  waiting  there  for  him,  and, 
finding  him  late,  would  come  to  meet  him.  If  she  was 
seen  by  any  of  his  party  at  close  range  she  would  be 
sure  to  attract  attention;  and  his  conscience  immediately 
assumed  that  she  would  be  associated  with  him,  after 
the  squire's  remarks.  She  had  asked  him  not  to  write; 
he  could  not  reach  there,  very  well,  before  the  brake; 
and  he  had  no  one  to  whom  he"  could  entrust  a  message. 
To  borrow  a  hack  or  bike  would  be  to  place  restrictions 
upon  their  wanderings,  which  he  would  avoid  if  possible. 

The  next  day,  however,  he  decided  to  follow  the 
brake;  and  it  was  with  considerable  impatience  that  he 
now  saw  it  coming  round  the  corner  of  the  shrubbery  that 
hid  the  stables  from  the  house. 

"Coming,  Burkett?"  shouted  one  of  the  men  as  it 
filled  up. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  went  indoors  to  his  room, 
which  commanded  a  view  of  the  road  for  some  way  and 
the  downs  in  the  distance  beyond. 

He  looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  already  past  two 
o'clock,  and  she  would  soon  be  waiting  up  there  by  the 
trees  that  showed  against  the  sky  some  three  miles  away. 

At  last  he  heard  the  wheels  moving  on  the  gravel 


38  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

below,  and,  presently,  he  saw  the  brake  turn  out  of  the 
drive  into  the  road.  He  gave  it  ten  minutes'  start,  and 
then  followed. 

As  he  walked  along,  his  feelings  were  decidedly  un- 
comfortable, and  from  an  early  age  comfort  had  been 
instilled  into  him,  by  concrete  example  as  well  as  by  more 
abstract  incitants,  as  the  Great  Ideal;  in  return  for  which 
men  gave  a  hostage  to  Fortune  by  a  sublime  disregard 
of  personal  comfort — "lest  one  good  custom  should  cor- 
rupt the  world,"  as  it  were — in  one  thing,  sport.  Now, 
by  some  subtle  anomaly  which  he  could  not  understand, 
he  was  uneasy  at  a  price  he  would  willingly  have  paid  in 
physical  bruises  for  much  less  enjoyment  than  the  girl 
had  afforded  him.  He  was  actually  beginning  to  be  as 
ashamed  of  himself  as  he  had,  in  the  first  flush  of  physi- 
cal conquest  and  delight,  been  pleased.  There  was  some- 
thing wrong  somewhere;  and  he  hated  solutions  which 
meant  mental  or  spiritual  effort.  The  consummation  of 
his  desires  had  brought  less  of  contentment  than  intro- 
spection. The  latter  vexed  him  considerably:  he  could 
not  disguise  the  fact  that  he  did  not  love  her  as  much  as 
he  had  imagined.  He  supposed  that  was  always  the  case 
with  the  man,  and  yet  .  .  .  He  felt  ashamed,  he  could 
not  get  away  from  it,  and  had  suspicions  that  the  game 
was  not  worth  the  candle.  For  which  blasphemy  against 
sport  itself  his  own  morality  rebuked  him  severely  and 
indicated  penances  with  alarming  conditions.  To  his 
credit  be  it  said  that  he  never  once  blamed  the  girl;  but 
there  was  something  almost  bathetic  in  his  seriousness, — 
in  the  strong  young  man,  whose  virility  had  been  its  own 
sanction,  now  servile  and  irritable  before  a  convention- 
alized morality  the  natural  man  in  him  rejected  and 
despised.  For,  by  degrees,  he  became  aware  of  one  thing 
clearly: — had  he  been  master  of  his  own  life,  had  he  fol- 
lowed his  own  impulses  in  the  matter  entirely,  Margaret 
would  have  sufficed  him.  He  would  have  worked  for 
her  in  the  fields,  if  necessary:  but— the  specter  of  his  mid- 
dle-class ideal  seemed  to  have  opened  branches  for  bogles 
everywhere.  As  -his  mind  fled  suddenly  across  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  39 

Rockies  he  met  its  ghostly  representative  on  the  Pacific 
slope:  in  Canada,  Australia,  New  Zealand,  South  Africa, 
everywhere  they  seemed  to  accost  him,  and,  after  a  po- 
lite formality  of  acknowledgment  toward  a  shabby  straw 
hat  and  brown  jacket  by  his  side,  inquire  about  the  head 
office  of  the  firm  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  The  smooth 
gentility  of  the  world  into  which  he  was  born;  his  father's 
white  hands,  that  wore  gloves  among  the  geraniums,  and 
which  yet  had  been  strong  enough  and  skilful  enough 
(figuratively  speaking)  to  make  Burkett  and  Bowker  a 
power  in  the  land  of  Commerce,  and  his  son  much  sought 
after  among  mammas  who  tolerated  the  young  man's 
wildness  and  exalted  his  manliness  to  daughters  em- 
bloused  with  the  latest  thing  in  Burkett  and  Bowker's 
silk, — it  awed  him,  even  while  he  half  detested  it.  Why? 
Alas,  to  have  found  out  why  would  have  meant  thought 
— thought  of  a  kind  he  more  than  half  detested  also.  He 
was  the  son  of  his  father;  who,  in  him,  was  the  inevitable 
correlation  of  the  system  he  had  helped  to  create,  and 
of  the  habits  of  thought  and  life  the  system  helped  to 
engender.  Anything  subtler  than  a  clever  salesman's 
mentality  was  discountenanced  by  Burkett  and  Bowker, 
on  behalf  of  the  system,  as  liable  to  result  in  inattention 
to  business.  Outside  business  hours  there  was  sport  of 
all  kinds — good  healthy  recreation  for  mind  and  body. 
The  system  was  almost  maternal  in  its  solicitude  for  the 
masses  who  existed  (it  was  understood)  because  of  it. 
Among  its  minor,  though  sufficiently  remarkable,  achieve- 
ments it  found  time  to  operate  like  an  x  horsepower  poul- 
tice, drawing  unbusinesslike  irregularities  of  sense  and 
soul  by  the  million  into  its  antiseptic  folds.  To  a  few 
incorrigibles,  it  is  true,  it  seemed  to  indicate  that  man's 
psychology  was  a  huge  mistake,  a  thing  unseemly  on  its 
sensual  side,  and  on  its  spiritual  side  premature  and  quite 
uncalled  for  in  this  world,  beside  which  the  lobes  of  his 
ears  were,  by  comparison,  an  ornamental  survival,  and 
not  without  an  object  lesson  in  the  practical  utilities. 

Even  as  he  strode  toward  the  hills,  under  the  skies  of 
gray  afternoon,  that  cast  no  shadow,  like  a  shadow  be- 


40  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

side  him  the  system  kept  at  his  mind's  elbow;  he  could  not 
get  away  from  it.  The  copses  assimilated  his  expletives, 
the  green  fields  and  the  brown  heard  his  frequent  allu- 
sions to  a  Devil.  He  was  worried,  and  when  he  was 
worried  he  swore  in  a  vague  virulence  that  knew  no  other 
tongue. 

At  the  foot  of  the  range  the  wheel  marks  of  the  brake 
showed  clearly  in  the  grass  lane,  where  a  spring  oozed 
across  it.  Hoping  that  the  party  in  front  had  not  seen 
Margaret,  he  hurried  up  the  mile  long  ascent  to  Three 
Trees.  Before  he  reached  the  top  she  had  seen  him,  and 
she  came  quickly  down  the  slope.  He  was  an  hour  late; 
and  the  girl  while  waiting  had  been  imagining  a  thousand 
things.  She  had  seen  the  party  coming  up  the  hill,  but 
had  not  been  observed  by  them,  as  she  had  retreated  into 
the  Holt  until  they  had  passed.  She  knew  they  would 
be  going  to  Langley,  and  that  they  would  follow  the 
track  at  Three  Trees  along  the  top  of  the  hills,  round 
the  valley. 

"We  shall  have  to  be  careful  in  the  future,  dear!" 
he  said,  after  she  had  answered  him  about  the  brake  and 
he  had  explained  his  delay  in  getting  to  her.  "Old  Rad- 
leigh  smells  a  rat." 

She  had  forgotten  her  fears  in  the  pleasure  of  being 
with  him  again.  She  started  at  his  words,  and  then 
waited,  filled  with  the  rapid  apprehensions  of  the  young 
in  sin. 

He  paused  awkwardly — uncertain  how  to  go  on. 
Then,  smiling:  "We  must  make  this  last  as  long  as  we 
can,  Margaret."  One  did  not  easily  tire  of  a  girl  like 
Margaret  among  her  own  proper  surroundings.  He 
doubted  if  he  would  want  her  half  as  much  in  Wimble- 
don. But  in  Midford  Holt  Margaret  was — perfect.  He 
had  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  he  loved  her  there.  Man 
has  not  yet  forgotten  the  passionate  wonder  of  his  first 
wanderings  and  their  accompanying  polygamies. 

By  this  they  had  turned  away  from  the  track  into 
the  birchwoods.  Among  the  trees,  as  they  walked,  a 
flood  of  emotions  passed  swiftly  over  her.  The  white 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  41 

trunks  became  ghosts,  pale  sepulchers  of  dead  hours  that 
had  lived  as  hours  would  never  live  again.  All  at  once 
she  stopped  and  faced  him,  her  face  grown  strange  and 
white. 

"Jim!" 

"Yes,    dear?"      He    endeavored    to    appear    uncon- 
cerned. 

Her  voice,  that  had  sounded  strange  as  she  uttered 
his  name,  became  quiet  and  broken  with  anguish  almost  in 
a  breath.  "If  anything  happens  to  me  I  shall  .  .  .  Oh, 
Jim!  Jim!" 

He  pulled  her  to  him  and  kissed  her.  As  he  felt  the 
sobs  awake  and  thicken,  and  the  tremors  of  the  girl's 
body  within  his  arms,  he,  too,  awakened  from  his  dreams 
to  the  light  of  a  chill  reality  that  borrowed  from  the 
cold  gray  skies  of  the  winter's  afternoon. 

"My  darling,  hush!  Don't  say  that!"  he  blurted  out 
huskily.  "If  anything  happens  I — I  must  marry  you!" 

Her  sobs  ceased,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  through 
her  tears;  then  her  gaze  dropped  away,  and  she  leaned 
against  him  quiescent.  The  "must"  had  sounded  the 
death-knell  of  her  hopes.  For  a  few  moments  her  heart 
seemed  to  have  ceased;  her  senses  failed  her;  she  could 
not  see  or  feel  anything  but  mist,  cold,  death-like:  then, 
with  clear  eyes,  her  brave  soul  commenced  its  long  battle. 

Man-like,  he  had  misunderstood.  A  vision  of  his 
father  and  mother  put  away  her  tear-stained  face.  He 
began  to  feel  uncomfortable  and  not  a  little  bad-tem- 
pered— with  the  illogical  objection  of  youth  to  cause  and 
effect  when  the  latter  assumes  unpleasant  characteristics. 
As  is  the  way  of  the  male,  it  was  of  James  Burkett  that 
he  was  thinking,  not  of  Margaret  Yeomans. 

A  pheasant  cock  got  up  close  to  them,  its  discordant 
crow  sounding  like  derisive  laughter  to  the  girl — she 
might  not,  probably  would  not,  see  him  again.  At  the 
thought  she  reached  up  and  kissed  him,  and  the  feel  of 
his  lips^  on  hers  brought  with  it  a  foretaste  of  the  misery 
that  separation  from  him  must  mean  for  her. 

She  had  had  her  dream  of  being  loved:  it  was  short, 


42  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

and  it  was  over.  She  was  nineteen,  and  women  lived  to 
ninety,  sometimes.  Gammer  Polgrean's  brave  old  face, 
while  she  had  once  told  Margaret  of  her  babies,  molder- 
ing  now  in  unknown  graves,  thousands  of  miles  from 
Midford,  rose  before  her.  Through  her  dreams'  after- 
math of  shadows  her  own  love  shone  undimmed,  as  some- 
thing of  that  divine  compensation  which  sacrifice  for  a 
beloved  object  brings  calmed  and  fortified  her  heart.  The 
strength  of  simplicity  was  hers,  the  simplicity  which  could 
consecrate  all  her  energies  to  the  one  supreme  thing  in 
her  life — a  simplicity  fuller  of  mystery  than  the  con- 
glomerate of  sentiments  which  strew  the  strata  of  more 
superficial  natures. 

Her  eyes  were  very  bright  as  she  said:  "No,  James, 
you  mustn't  marry  me.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  wife  for  you, 
dear." 

He  was  silent,  ashamed  that  he  wanted  to  draw  his 
breath  in  relief. 

"Will  you  ever  forgive  me,  Margaret?" 

"Of  course,  dear!  Likely  I  was  most  to  blame." 
She  spoke  evenly :  her  tears  had  stopped  completely  now, 
and  her  voice  was  the  voice  of  one  who  speculates  on 
the  "quite  beyond."  She  went  on:  "Jim,  did  you  ever 
love  me?" 

"Did  I,  my  darling  girl?  I  do,  now!"  he  said  hur- 
riedly, wishing  himself  anywhere  than  in  his  erstwhile 
Eden.  Then  shame  took  hold  on  him,  and  he  added: 
"Look  here,  my  poor  Margaret,  I  have  been  a  damned 
cad,  but  we  must  make  the  best  of  it!  Only  .  .  ."  He 
broke  off — the  future  again  chaotic. 

"Only  what,  Jim?" 

"Only  my  people  will  cut  up  like  the  very  devil.  They 
are  so  infernally  respectable!"  He  half  shouted  the  last 
sentence. 

Margaret  lost  herself  for  a  moment  in  a  vague  sur- 
mise as  to  the  likeness  of  his  mother— the  word  "re- 
spectable" in  connection  with  that  lady  conjuring  up  vis- 
ions of  a  being  before  whom  her  own  lapse  would  be  a 
thing  for  the  scorn  unspeakable  which  is  too  grievous 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  43 

to  be  borne  by  woman  from  woman.  In  his  vehemence 
she  felt  already  his  mother's  hate,  notwithstanding  Mrs. 
Burkett  was  in  blissful  ignorance  of  her  existence. 

"Your  mother  would  hate  me,  Jim!"  she  said,  full  of 
the  thought  and  its  inevitable  consequence  of  curiosity. 

"The  mater's  all  right,  but  .  .  .  Oh,  you  know, 
dear!"  To  himself  he  opined  that  women  were  the  very 
devil  in  some  things. 

The  problem  was  as  difficult  as  it  was  uninviting. 
He  must  hope  for  the  best.  Certainly  that  was  the  thing 
— hope  for  the  best.  He  proceeded  to  cheer  her  up — a 
process  which  involved  more  physical  caresses  than  men- 
tal effort,  in  a  solution  of  difficulties  which,  after  all, 
might  never  materialize. 

In  this  cheering  up  he  was  so  far  successful  that  Mar- 
garet forgot  her  troubles  to  a  certain  extent  in  her  lover's 
kisses.  He  would  think  of  her  sometimes,  she  supposed 
wistfully. 

Of  course  he  would!  Rather!  He  should  think  he 
would!  Dear  old  Midford!  In  his  way  he  loved  the 
country;  but  his  career  was  agreed  upon,  mapped  out 
for  him.  His  father  looked  to  him  to  carry  on  the 
already  great  tradition  which  was  Burkett  and  Bow- 
ker. 

The  firm  would  offer  ample  scope  for  all  a  young 
man's  talents.  He  had  been  despatched  to  the  Argentine 
the  year  before :  there  was  talk  between  the  partners  of 
great  extensions.  His  father  hoped,  the  boy's  restless- 
ness was  only  a  temporary  aberration.  Not  without  se- 
cret misgivings  Mr.  Burkett  compared  his  son's  physical 
and  mental  equipment  and  activities.  His  mother  spoilt 
him,  of  course,  her  only  son. 

He  would  be  expected  to  marry,  and  to  marry  "a 
lady" — the  latter  had  been  a  point  of  honor  with  his 
father  whenever  the  subject  of  a  possible  marriage  for 
him  had  been  mooted.  His  mind  had  wandered  to  the 
future  again.  Damn  the  future!  The  future  held  all 
sorts  of  unpleasant  things.  His  arms  held  his  Margaret 
at  that  moment. 


44  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"We  had  best  not  meet  again,  James,"  she  said  sud- 
denly, with  quiet  resignation. 

"My  darling!  Why  not?"  Then,  after  a  pause: 
"Aren't  you  sorry  you  ever  met  me,  Margaret?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  Jim,  I'll  never  be  that — whatever  happens!" 

She  had  idolized  him;  and  already  he  represented  to 
her  the  memory  of  a  supreme  happiness  to  be  cherished 
while  her  life  lasted.  Already  she  looked  upon  him  as  a 
joy  of  the  past.  Her  renunciation  was  as  spontaneous  as 
her  love  had  been.  His  kiss  awoke  her  from  her  reverie, 
and  she  sighed  involuntarily.  Her  resolve  was  taken — 
they  must  not  meet  again.  If  her  love  was  to  bring  with 
it  that  which  nature  had  ordained  for  the  woman,  would 
not  her  love  provide  her  with  strength  to  bear  her  bur- 
den? Her  hasty,  inchoate  words  just  before,  prompted 
by  the  emotion  of  a  sudden  fear,  sounded  to  her  now 
like  blasphemy. 

"Dear,  don't  ee  worry  about  me !  I  never  meant  that 
what  I  said  just  now,"  she  told  him. 

His  relief  was  beyond  words.  He  held  her  closer 
to  him,  stroking  her  hair  tenderly. 

The  sky  was  darkening  slowly,  clouds,  of  softer  gray, 
in  league-long  ranks,  came  closer  to  the  hills.  Once  or 
twice  big  drops  rustled  the  golden  carpets  of  the  woods. 

They  walked  on  down  the  bridle-road  toward  the 
Crossways.  Neither  of  them  could  find  many  words.  He 
forebore  to  look  at  her,  since  he  knew  she  was  only  par- 
tially successful  in  a  struggle  with  tears.  As  darkness 
gathered,  passion  worked  in  him,  but  genuine  sorrow 
for  her  made  him  a  shamefast  man.  His  head  burned; 
when  he  took  her  hand  it  was  cold  in  his.  Once 
she  dropped  behind;  and  he  did  not  turn  while  she  wiped 
her  eyes.  He  could  not  find  it  in  him  to  affect  a  cheer- 
fulness with  her  now,  he  was  too  uneasy.  She  was  mak- 
ing pitiful  search  for  courage  to  carry  her  through  her 
last  moments  with  him. 

A  little  above  the  Crossways  they  stopped  involun- 
tarily. A  fortnight,  hardly  more,  had  sufficed  to  fashion 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  45 

the  girl  into  a  woman  for  whom  life  was  a  transcendent 
vindication  of  reality,  in  terms  of  sense  and  spirit;  when 
the  Hour  can  be  a  supreme  thing  in  the  presence  of  Eter- 
nity. Now,  a  deadly  chill  upon  her,  the  end  was  come. 
She  held  out  her  hand.  Instead  of  taking  it  he  took  her 
in  his  arms  a  little.  All  passion  left  him:  before  her 
mute  womanhood  a  lump  rose  in  his  throat  that  sickened 
him.  Fearing  for  her  courage  she  managed  "Good-bye." 
The  next  moment  her  arms  were  round  his  neck  while  she 
whispered,  "God  bless  and  keep  you,  dear.  Good-bye, 
Jim." 

She  was  gone. 

James  Burkett  stood  watching  her  disappear  into  the 
dark — she  did  not  turn  round — the  sense  of  loss  only  less 
than  the  sense  of  shame  upon  him.  When  the  night  hid 
her  he  turned,  and  trudged  slowly  out  of  the  valley,  a 
miserable  man. 

Struggling  desperately  with  her  sobs  Margaret  lin- 
gered in  the  gorse.  At  last  her  passion  had  spent  itself 
somewhat,  and  she  could  put  her  outward  grief  away 
from  her  in  her  efforts  at  composure  before  she  went  in 
to  her  aunt.  Fate  was  merciful  to  her  now:  Aunt  Deb 
had  gone  down  to  Gammer  Polgrean's,  and  did  not  return 
for  an  hour. 

She  went  up  to  her  room,  thankful  beyond  measure 
for  this  respite,  and  bathed  her  face  and  eyes.  The  re- 
action from  the  control  she  had  managed  to  exercise  for 
his  sake  and  her  own  when  they  parted  would  not  claim 
all  its  due  yet,  there  came  upon  her  such  physical  weari- 
ness as  numbed  her  senses  for  a  time. 

Her  aunt,  when  she  returned,  was  full  of  the  scheme 
for  church  decoration  at  the  coming  Christmas — the 
while  Margaret  prayed  inwardly  for  bed  and  a  release 
from  the  tortures  her  attempts  at  concealment  put  upon 
her.  The  desire  to  cry  out,  to  fall  upon  her  aunt's  knees 
as  upon  a  mother's,  rose  hysterically  in  her  once,  and 
frightened  her  into  quiet  lest  it  should  repeat  itself.  She 
sought  frantically  for  support  in  her  loneliness,  and  found 
it,  curiously  to  her  half  distracted  mind,  in  the  thought 


46  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

of  Gammer  Polgrean.  Somehow  she  felt  she  had  for- 
feited for  ever  her  claim  on  her  aunt's  forgiveness.  She 
remembered  Hettie  Ryott.  Did  her  aunt  guess?  She 
would  feel  the  shame — how  could  she  feel  the  glory  of 
what  it  had  been  to  her? 

Her  aunt  had  seen  nothing  suspicious  in  her  niece's 
frequent  absence.  Margaret  had  always  been  a  great 
one  for  wandering  about  the  Holt.  Indeed,  Miss 
Deborah,  more  practical,  looked  upon  the  girl  as 
a  "wool-gatherer" — a  tendency  which  had  been 
strongly  developed  in  her  dead  brother,  the  girl's 
father,  and  which  she,  no  doubt,  inherited  from  "poor 
David." 

That  night,  as  Margaret  undressed,  a  star,  that  had 
been  to  her  as  an  emblem  of  heavenly  joy,  seemed  now 
to  shine  upon  her  with  a  baleful  gleam.  Suddenly  it  was 
gone  behind  a  cloud;  and  her  soul  sank  into  a  great  dark- 
ness, as  deep  as  the  impenetrable  gloom  which  came  upon 
the  skies,  harbinger  of  coming  rain.  Presently  it  began 
to  beat  upon  the  lattice :  as  her  own  tears  broke  forth 
anew  it  was  to  her  as  though  the  night  wept  with  her  in 
all  its  desolation. 

She  slept  at  last;  and  woke  to  find  it  still  raining 
steadily.  No  escape:  she  must  stay  indoors,  and  put  as 
bright  a  face  upon  the  matter  as  she  could.  The  long 
drought  was  broken:  there  came  a  week's  incessant  rain 
and  wind.  Wind  that  crept  sighing  through  the  tiles, 
and  moaned  in  the  woods,  or  rose  to  a  wail,  and  gasped, 
and  sank  to  the  echo  of  a  sob,  like  a  human  thing:  the 
long-drawn  horror  of  it,  and  her  ghastly  efforts  at  cheer- 
fulness during  the  day,  left  her  a  physical  and  mental 
wreck. 

Then  the  frost  came,  and  the  clear  cold  skies  and 
pale  December  sun.  At  that  she  crept  out — a  broken, 
wounded  creature — with  white  cheeks  and  dark  rings 
under  her  eyes. 

Her  aunt  was  alarmed,  and  spoke  of  the  doctor. 
Margaret  insisted  that  it  was  nothing:  she  never  felt 
well  long  if  she  had  to  stay  indoors. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  47 

She  went  southward  that  afternoon:  she  must  keep 
away  from  the  Holt. 

The  short  days  that  seemed  so  long  to  her  drew 
near  to  Christmas.  He  was  going  back  on  the  fourteenth 
of  the  month,  he  had  told  her. 

Again  the  wind,  that  had  gone  info  the  north  when 
the  frost  came,  veered  to  the  southwest,  and  another 
spell  of  open  weather  followed. 

An  irresistible  desire  to  wander  once  more  among 
the  hills,  that  had  brought  her  so  much  happiness  and 
misery,  came  upon  her  one  afternoon,  and  she  went  up 
the  valley  to  Three  Trees.  Instinctively  she  sought  out 
the  places  where  they  had  roamed  together:  she  found 
the  bircji  tree  where  she  had  sat  with  his  arm  round  her 
that  afternoon  that  seemed  so  long  ago.  She  started 
as  she  reached  it,  easily  distinguishable  from  its  fellows 
by  the  peculiarity  of  its  limbs. 

On  the  one  where  they  had  sat  he  had  cut  the  letters 
J  and  M. 

So  he  had  been  there  since !  The  sight  awakened  a 
host  of  tender  memories  that  swept  aside  for  a  time  the 
hopeless  longing  in  her  heart. 

James  had  been  to  the  Holt,  hoping  that  she  would 
come  again,  in  spite  of  the  conviction  that  she  would  not, 
and  that  it  was  better  so.  Then  the  time  had  come  for 
him  to  go  back  to  London.  On  the  morning  of  the  day 
he  left  the  squire's  he  went  up  into  the  wood,  and  cut 
the  letters  Margaret  had  found  there. 

She  sat  in  the  tree  until  the  dusk  grew  dark  with  night. 
There  was  no  hurry:  her  aunt  would  stop  to  tea  with 
Gammer  Polgrean.  At  last  she  rose,  and,  shivering 
slightly,  walked  toward  the  pines.  The  tears  welled 
fast  in  her  eyes  as  she  heard  their  voices,  wholly  sor- 
rowful now,  borne  on  the  wind  to  her  as  she  approached; 
their  somber  heads  raised  darkling  under  a  nightfall 
thick  with  cloud. 

Then  she  saw  IT,  and  stopped  suddenly  and  stood 
very  still,  with  wide  eyes  bright  with  a  nameless  won- 
der that  changed  to  dreadful  fear. 


48  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

At  the  foot  of  one  of  the  trees  there  shone  through 
the  shadows  the  face  of  a  child. 

She  sank  on  her  knees  in  silent  terror.  Then  her 
lips  framed  one  word — "Mother!"  and  she  fell  forward 
on  her  face,  insensible. 


CHAPTER   V 

MORNING 

ON  coming  to  after  her  swoon  the  dead  bracken 
around  her,  rustling  in  the  wind,  seemed  full  of  unearthly 
voices:  when  her  brain  cleared  a  dreadful  longing  to 
watch  the  shadows  under  the  pine  warned  her  that  she 
must  escape  from  the  spot  or  lose  her  reason. 

She  staggered  away  through  the  fern,  ricking  her 
ankle  in  a  rabbit-hole  ere  she  reached  the  soft  turf  of  the 
bridle-road.  The  physical  pain  steadied  her,  and  when 
it  passed  she  found  herself  walking  quietly  toward  home, 
notwithstanding  that  her  soul  sank  into  depths  beyond  the 
power  of  man's  pen  to  adequately  describe,  during  her 
passing  along  that  dark  way  out  of  the  hills.  But  just 
before  she  reached  the  Crossways,  at  the  place  where 
she  had  parted  from  her  lover,  something  of  her  old 
courage  came  back  in  a  way  that  surprised  her.  She  be- 
gan comparing  her  case  with  the  forsaken  women  of 
books,  with  girls  who  had  fled  from  her  own  district 
that  she  had  known  of  personally.  The  instinct  of  flight 
became  insistent  in  her,  and  forced  her  faculties  to  co- 
herent thoughts  of  escape. 

The  social  Torquemada  has  not  yet  lost  its  lust  of 
cruelty  toward  women,  ay!  though  it  be  promulgated 
in  the  name  of  God  and  Righteousness  as  other  abomina- 
tions have  been,  and  are.  And,  though  it  well  may  be  that 
its  human  inquisitors,  at  some  time  or  other  in  their  lives, 
have  had  mothers  of  their  own,  the  land  is  still  loud  with 
its  holy — the  only — answer  to  the  whinings  of  Promiscu- 
ity; so  that,  since  we  are  all  innately  vile,  we  may  yet  be 
thankful,  on  occasion,  that  we  are  not  as  others  are. 

49 


5o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Margaret  had  had  plenty  of  warning,  there  was  no  excuse 
for  her.  Besides,  the  truth  of  these  things,  a  sufficiently 
deplorable  and  disgusting  one,  is  intuitively  understood 
by  Woman,  who  is  notoriously  the  first  in  crying  out  for 
the  stake  and  fagot  and  all  the  Auto-da-fe  of  morality 
on  the  heretics  of  her  own  sex.  When  the  world  showed 
its  capacity  for  thoroughness,  by  beginning  at  the  very 
beginning  with  the  raw  material  of  life  manufacture,  and 
its  capacity  for  infinite  wisdom,  by  making  the  wonderful 
discovery  that  hypocrisy  was  as  invaluable  an  adjunct  for 
social  happiness  as  for  commercial  success,  one  such  dis- 
covery at  a  time  was  as  much  as  could  be  reasonably  ex- 
pected. It  has  been  left  for  a  later  generation  to  make  a 
still  more  remarkable  one — that  the  practice  of  hypocrisy 
results  in  the  production  of  hypocrites.  The  sanctity  of 
marriage  is  now  firmly  established,  and  we  have  to  thank 
the  disinterested  efforts  of  a  Church  for  obtaining  the 
formal  and  express  instructions  of  no  less  a  power  than 
the  Almighty  in  the  matter.  Since  she  had  been  wicked 
and  wilful  enough  to  ignore  such  well-authenticated  in- 
stance of  Divine  interposition  on  her  behalf,  by  which 
her  own  cravings  would  have  become  refined  out  of 
bestiality  into  the  chaste  desires  of  a  respectable  woman, 
she  must  now  pay  the  penalty. 

She  was  not  without  courage,  as  I  have  said,  but  with 
the  world  against  her  a  girl  of  nineteen  is  apt  to  fly  as 
for  her  life,  before,  like  other  hunted  things,  she  turns 
at  bay. 

During  the  next  few  days  she  would  have  sunk  into 
a  kind  of  stupor,  but  for  the  need  of  evolving  some  plan 
of  escape,  and  for  the  fear  that  her  aunt  would  have  cer- 
tainly fetched  the  doctor,  there  and  then. 

The  truth,  unequivocal  beyond  all  doubt  and  in  all 
its  terrible  reality,  faced  her,  a  quick  woman,  from  out 
the  shadows  of  the  future :  the  vision  of  the  child's  face 
she  had  seen  in  the  shadows  of  the  tree  had  been  a  pre- 
science soon  to  be  confirmed. 

In  a  few  short  weeks  she  had  passed  from  a  happy 
girlhood  into  the  slow  length  of  an  ordeal  which  is  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  51 

supreme  test  of  a  woman's  love,  courage  and  greatness 
of  soul. 

The  mystery  which  surrounds  the  beginnings  of  ex- 
istence was  to  be  revealed  to  her,  in  a  way  no  maiden 
woman  may  penetrate,  with  all  its  wonder,  tribulation, 
terror  and  triumph ;  the  mystery  of  mysteries  which  hides 
the  birth  of  sentient  things  within  the  life  of  Woman — 
the  Female  Principle  beside  which  the  active  egoisms, 
mental  and  physical,  of  the  male  may  be  but  as  the  be- 
ginnings of  a  new  wisdom,  crude  and  hardly  cognizant 
of  its  truth  as  yet;  since,  for  all  its  clamancy,  it  has  found 
life  less  wonderful  than  death. 

She  had  left  her  breakfast  only  half  eaten,  and,  feel- 
ing ill,  had  escaped  to  her  room. 

Suddenly  the  paroxysms  passed,  and  through  the  dark 
which  had  fallen  upon  her  a  great  light  seemed  to  be 
shining  into  her  soul  from  far  away.  She  rose  from 
the  bed  on  which  she  had  dropped,  and  stood,  white  and 
drawn-looking,  but  collected.  Her  hour  had  come.  Now 
she  was  going  to  face  it  bravely  for  the  sake  of  the  life 
that  was  to  be  her  guerdon ;  only  through  it,  and  by  such 
atonement,  could  she  hope  for  any  salvation. 

For  the  first  time  for  many  days  her  aunt  heard  her 
singing  to  herself. 

In  the  afternoon  Miss  Deborah  fozed  in  front  of  the 
fire.  Margaret  sat  watching  the  drowsy  woman's  placid 
face.  The  sight  hurt  her  cruelly,  and  she  began  to  cry: 
her  aunt  had  been  very  good  to  her.  At  last  she  could 
stand  it  no  more.  She  went  out  quietly,  and,  crossing 
the  beechwoods  at  the  back  of  the  cottage,  came  into  a 
plantation  of  young  chestnuts.  It  was  here  she  had  seen 
Hettie  Ryott  lying.  She  wondered  if  anyone  would  see 
herself  crying  now — the  trees  were  so  bare. 

She  had  determined  to  leave  her  home  early  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  The  struggle  to  avoid  rousing  her 
aunt's  suspicions,  the  mute  reproach  of  the  homely  things 
and  surroundings  among  which  her  life  had  passed,  were 
becoming  an  intolerable  agony  to  her  now.  She  felt  the 
coming  Christmas  season,  with  its  carols,  and  cards  wish- 


52  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

ing  her  "A  Merry  Christmas  and  a  Happy  New  Year," 
would  be  a  thing  beyond  all  endurance.  The  thought  of 
mistletoe  mocked  her:  the  Christmas  pudding  would 
choke  her.  By  leaving  Midford  at  once  she  would  escape 
certain  detection  and  impossible  explanations.  Also,  it 
might  possibly  make  it  easier  for  her  aunt  to  account  for 
her  absence — a  visit  to  London,  friends,  anything.  Poor 
Aunt  Deb!  it  would  be  a  miserable  Christmas  for  her. 
Gammer  Polgrean  would  have  to  know,  indeed  she  would 
like  her  to  know.  Somehow  she  felt  the  old  woman  would 
not  only  be  her  friend,  but  would  be  someone  to  whom 
her  aunt  could  turn  for  sympathy. 

She  succeeded  in  saying  good-night  to  her  aunt  when 
they  went  to  bed,  wondering  if  her  voice  would  obey  or 
betray  her.  In  her  room  she  wrote  a  farewell  letter. 
"Dearest  aunt,"  it  ran,  "I  am  going  away  because  I  have 
done  you  a  great  wrong  and  I  will  bear  the  shame  some- 
where where  you  need  not  have  the  dreadful  worry  of 
me  in  trouble  to  be  looked  at  by  other  folks,  and  you  by. 
I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  because  as  you  said  it  is 
right  for  girls  to  be  punished.  But  believe  me,  dearest 
Aunt  Deb,  I  want  to  save  you  as  much  as  I  can,,  seeing 
it  can't  be  helped  now  it's  done.  And  I  can't  tell  even 
you  who  he  is  because  I  love  him  so.  My  aunt  is  too 
proud  to  have  me,  and  so  am  I,  marry  a  man  who  don't 
want  me  as  his  wife.  So  I  am  going  to  take  a  situation  in 
London  where  I  am  not  known.  I  will  write  to  you, 
my  dear  lost  aunt,  every  week  so  you  will  know  I  am 
well.  You  might  tell  folk,  all  but  Gammer  Polgrean,  I 
went  on  a  visit  to  London  for  Christmas  and  afterward 
I  took  a  situation  if  you  think  it  right.  Dear  aunt,  I  shall 
always  love  you  next  to  him  better  than  anybody,  but  I 
can't  write  any  more,  but  God  bless  you  for  being  a 
mother  to  me,  your  broken-hearted  Margaret."  P.  S.  I 
have  taken  all  I  shall  want." 

The  letter  finished,  she  looked  out  a  few  necessary 
things;  got  out  her  best  frock  and  examined  it  for  any 
of  those  shortcomings  in  the  way  of  buttons,  hooks,  etc., 
that  women's  frocks  so  frequently  disclose  to  the  experi- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  53 

enced  eye;  and  then,  after  blowing  out  the  light,  she  knelt 
and  prayed  for  strength  to  play  her  part  on  the  morrow. 
It  was  natural  that  she  should  cry  herself  to  sleep.  Her 
beautiful  brown  hair  was  wet  with  many  tears  ere  oblivion 
took  her. 

She  woke  with  a  start.  Rising  quietly,  she  struck  a 
light,  and  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  a  quarter  to  seven. 
Her  aunt  would  not  get  up  before  eight.  She  dressed, 
and,  collecting  her  things,  put  them  in  a  hand-bag.  Then 
she  stole  downstairs,  shivering  with  the  chill  of  a  cold 
dawn  and  the  coldness  at  her  heart. 

Tinker,  with  his  black  tail  quiveringly  erect,  came 
running  to  greet  her,  and  her  tears  mixed  with  his  milk 
as  she  poured  some  out  for  that  effusively  affectionate 
feline.  She  made  a  strong  cup  of  tea,  and  forced  her- 
self to  eat  some  bread  and  butter.  Then  she  laid  the 
cloth  for  her  aunt's  breakfast,  and  left  the  letter  on  her 
platq.  Her  parents'  photos  claimed  her — from  across 
the  years  the  dead  woman  exacted  tribute  from  her  child 
in  a  passion  of  remorse-compelling  tears.  Afterward  she 
took  the  photos  from  their  frames  and  slipped  them  into 
her  bag. 

It  was  time  for  her  to  go.  At  last  she  crept  upstairs 
to  her  aunt's  door — listening  thereat,  and  trembling  at 
the  mystery  of  an  unconsciously  realized  Nemesis,  ir- 
revocable, relentless,  and  obscure. 

In  the  beechwood  she  stopped  for  a  last  look  back  at 
the  old  house,  though  it  was  quite  invisible  through  the 
mists  of  the  morning  and  her  own  tears.  A  husky  cough 
sounded  near  her.  She  recognized  the  sound  as  coming 
from  Poacher  Alf :  no  doubt  he  was  returning  to  his  cot- 
tage, south  of  Midford,  and  keeping  within  the  fringe 
of  the  woods  as  he  came  down  the  Holt.  Afraid  to  move, 
she  stood  motionless  and  waited.  A  darker  something 
passed  across  the  surrounding  vapor:  the  cough  came 
again,  but  faintly,  and  this  time  from  the  Midford  side 
of  her.  The  incident  made  her  hurry.  In  places  the  mist 
lay  very  thick;  at  others  it  opened  out  for  fifty  yards  or 
so  at  a  time. 


54  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Not  spring  with  all  her  laughing  leaves  and  flowers, 
not  summer  with  all  her  green  delights  of  woodland 
shade  and  shine,  had  been  more  wonderful  than  autumn 
in  the  Holt  to  Margaret;  albeit  of  its  myriad  April  voices 
that  sang  the  wildwood  through  at  nuptials  of  the  year, 
of  all  the  crooning  in  its  high  beech  trees,  whose  pigeons 
fattened  now  upon  the  mast  below,  only  the  robin  now 
whistled  his  sharp  and  sudden  song  across  the  deep  dead 
leaves.  Now  that  she  had  to  leave  it,  perhaps  for  ever, 
the  place  became  intolerably  dear.  Often,  in  the  fall, 
along  this  very  path — a  happy  healthy  girl  who  would 
shortly  go  back  home  to  a  healthy  breakfast,  with  appe- 
tite an  exquisite  hunger  from  her  early  ramble — she  had 
come  to  watch  and  to  listen  in  the  silver  silence  of  just 
such  another  morning.  From  a  child  upward  she  could 
remember  the  glistening  swords  of  grass  that  stood, 
gemmed  with  dew,  around  the  scarlet  domes  of  innumera- 
ble fungi ;  the  curled  wet  gold  of  lately  fallen  leaves ; 
the  ghostly  limbs  of  birches;  the  gray  and  emerald 
smoothness  of  the  beech  trunks  fading  away  above  into 
soft  shrouds  of  mist:  the  sight,  the  smell  of  it,  as  she 
walked  away  from  it  all,  a  girl  sick  in  soul  and  body,  was 
to  haunt  her  with  memories  all  the  autumns  of  her  life. 

Down  into  the  last  hollow  of  the  woods,  a  white  pool 
wherefrom  the  birches  rose  like  nymphs  with  dripping 
hair;  up  the  opposite  slope,  where,  as  a  little  maid,  she 
had  lain  bluebell-deep,  and  dreamed  of  knights  and  ladies 
riding  by;  and  she  stopped  at  the  edge  of  the  trees  and 
wiped  tears  and  mist  out  of  Her  eyes.  Beyond  was  a 
broad  hilly  common,  whose  mushrooms  had  often  brought 
her  to  its  gprsey  miles.  The  mist  held  thickly,  and  she 
crossed  it  without  being  seen. 

By  a  quarter  to  nine  she  had  entered  Shapston;  and, 
before  the  hour  struck,  she  was  seated  in  the  train  for 
London.  There  were  few  travelers  by  it;  and  she  found 
a  carriage  to  herself.  The  engine,  after  shaking  frantic 
reverberations  through  the  mist,  began  to  move:  Mar- 
garet felt  the  wheels  under  her,  and  took  her  last  look 
at  the  half  hidden  spire  as  they  glided  by  Shapston 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  55 

Church,  where  she  had  been  christened;  and  closed  her 
old  life  with  one  long  burst  of  passionate  tears. 

It  eased  her;  and  she  began  her  preparations  for  the 
future  by  searching  for  her  savings,  some  twelve  pounds, 
which  she  had  brought  with  her.  The  money  was  safe; 
and  she  returned  it  carefully  to  a  sort  of  pocket  she  had 
sewed  to  her  stays.  During  the  time  this  amount  of 
money  would  keep  her  she  would,  no  doubt,  be  able  to 
find  a  situation  of  some  sort:  servants  were  in  great 
request  in  London,  she  had  heard.  Her  spirits  re- 
vived as  she  set  herself  to  think  methodically  of  ways 
and  means,  preparations  for  the  shadow-baby  that  even 
now  began  to  soothe  her  from  her  shame.  In  her  own 
estimation,  the  girl  became,  after  a  few  minutes  of  such 
reverie,  not  only  an  experienced  but  a  bold-to-brazen 
woman. 

The  temptation  to  write  to  James,  as  she  had  prom- 
ised to  do  in  the  event  of  finding  herself  in  her  present 
condition,  had  been  a  terrible  one.  She  had  resisted  it, 
deciding  that  she  must  break  her  promise  to  her  lover  for 
his  own  sake.  Also,  she  felt  she  could  not  face  him :  in- 
stinctively she  knew  she  would  be  different  in  his  eyes 
now,  and  she  shrank  from  a  disclosure  which  she  be- 
lieved would  destroy  such  love  as  he  had  for  her,  in  the 
trouble  and  disgrace  that  he  would  feel  she  had  brought 
upon  him.  One  day  she  would  endeavor  to  see  him  again 
without  being  seen  herself. 

At  least  she  would  try  and  provide  for  her  child  with- 
out seeking  assistance  from  him.  She  knew  him  well 
enough  to  know  that  a  revelation  of  her  condition  would 
be  a  terrible  shock  to  him — from  what  he  had  said — and 
she  would  save  him  that. 

Often,  of  late,  things  had  seemed  half  unreal  to  her: 
it  seemed  impossible  at  times  to  realize  that  the  penalty 
she  must  pay,  for  obeying  the  dictates  of  her  love  and 
nature,  was  one  that  included  in  its  punishment  exile  from 
her  beloved  Midford  and  all  its  joys.  Yet  here  she  was, 
on  her  way  to  London,  looking  forward  to  a  life  of 
drudgery,  a  life  laid  desolate  but  for  that  other,  some- 


56  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

where  at  her  heart,  an  outcast  in  the  eyes  of  man-and- 
womankind. 

Beneath  her  the  wheels  muttered  and  murmured:  the 
speed  increased:  out  of  the  mist  spectral  trees  sprang 
swiftly  and  sank  again  out  of  sight.  Presently  she  heard 
muffled  reports;  and  the  train,  shaken  and  complaining, 
came  to  a  stop  and  silence  in  a  cutting.  She  wiped  the 
glass  of  the  window:  outside  she  could  see  the  bram- 
bles, that  crept  down  the  bank  from  a  dense  of  trees 
above,  still  with  their  spotted  green  and  yellow  and  crim- 
son leaves  hanging  in  dank  indifference  in  the  motionless 
air.  There  was  something  of  despair  in  their  attitude 
and  aspect  which  chilled  the  girl.  Then  there  came  into 
her  head  some  lines  of  a  poem  on  autumn,  and  she  found 
a  consolation  in  repeating  them  again  and  again,  and 
to  the  rhythm  of  the  wheels,  when  the  train  had  started 
once  more. 

"The  golden  blight  and  blain  among  the  trees 
Shows  like  some  victor's  garland  of  decay: 
Yet  haply  death  himself  shall  sooner  cease 
Than  Autumn  ever  wholly  conquer  May." 


CHAPTER   VI 

GAMMER  POLGREAN  CONGRATULATES  THE  ALMIGHTY 

"MARGARET!" 

Receiving  no  reply,  and  thinking  that  the  girl  was 
out  at  the  back  somewhere,  Miss  Deborah  went  on  with 
her  toilet.  That  completed,  she  went  downstairs,  and 
walked  briskly  into  the  parlor. 

At  the  sight  of  the  letter  lying  on  her  plate  her  usual 
placid  demeanor  underwent  a  tragic  transformation:  she 
checked  herself,  frightened  at  she  knew  not  what.  With 
hands  that  shook  visibly  she  tore  open  the  envelope,  and 
read  its  contents. 

Aunt  Deb  was  not  yet  fifty.  When  the  letter  fell 
from  her  hands,  a  few  minutes  later,  she  had  become  an 
old  woman,  whose  face  had  a  worn  gray  look.  She  sat 
down,  staring  at  the  piece  of  paper  lying  before  her  that 
had  been  capable  of  shaking  her  like  an  ague  fit.  She 
tried  to  say  something  aloud,  but  no  sound  came  when 
her  lips  moved.  She  sat  still,  stupefied,  stupid-looking, 
with  a  pitiful  suggestion  of  terror  somewhere  at  work 
in  her  spinal  cord  that  must  produce  paralysis  or  im- 
becility. Then,  without  a  word,  she  rose  and  fetched 
the  Bible  that  lay  on  the  old-fashioned  chiffonier  behind 
her. 

She  placed  it  on  the  breakfast-table,  and,  feeling  in 
her  pocket  for  her  glasses,  produced  them  and  a  hand- 
kerchief as  well.  The  Bible  to  Aunt  Deb  was  not  a  book 
in  which  one  looks  for  the  spiritual  truths  of  man's  im- 
agination and  aspiration,  it  was  "Gospel  truth"  to  her 
in  the  old  significance  of  the  term.  She  wiped  her  eyes, 
adjusted  her  glasses,  and,  resuming  her  seat,  opened  the 

57 


5 8  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

great  book  at  the  eighth  chapter  of  St.  John — her  fa- 
vorite Apostle. 

"Now,  Moses  in  the  law  commanded  us  that  such  should 
be  stoned ;  but  what  sayest  thou  ? 

"This  they  said,  tempting  him,  that  they  might  have  to  accuse 
him.  But  Jesus  stooped  down,  and  with  his  finger  wrote  on  the 
ground,  as  though  he  heard  them  not. 

"So  when  they  continued  asking  him,  he  lifted  up  himself,  and 
said  unto  them,  He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  first 
cast  a  stone  at  her." 

Slowly  the  gray  look  passed  from  Aunt  Deb's  face. 
She  removed  her  spectacles — she  could  not  see  to  read 
any  more,  but  sat  staring  at  the  big  black  print,  with  blind 
eyes  from  which  two  streams  coursed  steadily  down  her 
cheeks. 

With  a  great  effort  at  control  she  got  up  from  her 
chair,  and  lit  the  oil-stove  that  had  served  its  purpose 
for  her  niece  a  little  while  before.  While  the  kettle 
boiled  she  went  to  the  window  and  stood  gazing  blankly 
out  at  the  mists. 

"Margaret!    Margaret!    My  poor  maid!    It's  my 

The  girl's  strangeness  for  some  time  past  had  be- 
come dreadfully  significant  to  her  aunt  now.  The  poor 
thing  must  have  suffered  dreadfully  before  taking  such 
a  step  as  this.  Margaret  had  been  like  a  flower  bloom- 
ing in  the  sheltered  hollows  of  the  Holt  of  which  she 
was  so  fond.  Outside  its  guardian  hills  the  winds  of 
the  World  had  raged,  as  unknown  to  her  almost  as  the 
jungle  tribes  of  men  and  beasts  in  lands  afar. 

"My  poor  darling!  Aunt  Deb  '11  find  ee  and  bring 
ee  home  again!" 

Margaret  had  mentioned  she  was  going  to  London. 
The  thought  stopped  her  voice  suddenly,  and  she  sank 
down  beside  the  open  Bible,  her  head  in  her  hands,  sob- 
bing and  praying  alternately. 

When,  at  last,  she  stood  up  it  was  to  realize  her  own 
helplessness  in  the  task  of  finding  Margaret.  The  girl 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  59 

had  stated  that  she  would  write  soon.  But  would  she? 
A  thousand  horrors  suggested  themselves  to  the  dis- 
ordered mind  of  the  homely  country  woman.  Margaret 
alone  in  London !  The  thought  paralyzed  her  for  a 
while ;  her  own  impressions  of  London,  derived  from  her 
very  few  visits  there,  being  of  a  vast  whirlpool  where 
people,  strangers,  especially,  were  swept  away  before 
one's  very  eyes,  engulfed  in  a  seething  vortex  of  hu- 
manity, and  seen  no  more.  For  a  moment  she  had  a  wild 
idea  of  driving  frantically  to  Shapston  and  telegraphing 
to  the  police  to  stop  the  girl  at  Waterloo.  She  dis- 
missed it,  knowing  instinctively  that — even  if  she  were 
successful — to  do  so  would  be  to  crush  the  girl's  sensi- 
tive soul  beneath  the  weight  of  an  intolerable  shame. 
Improbable  things  which  might  yield  her  something  by 
which  to  cling  for  hope  she  clutched  at  desperately — to 
discard  them  after  a  moment's  reflection  and  drift  on 
still  further  down  the  current  of  her  fears.  At  last  she 
felt  firmer  ground  under  her.  She  knew  Margaret  well 
enough  to  know  that  she  would  not  have  given  herself 
up  to  any  man  without  loving  him  with  all  her  heart  and 
soul — the  girl  was  no  light  o'  love.  Aunt  Deb  knew  that 
that  kind  of  love  had  power  to  save  its  victims  from  the  ^ 
worst  fate. 

She  began  to  feel  angry  with  Margaret  on  personal 
grounds.  Why  had  she  such  little  faith  in  her  aunt — her 
only  living  relative?  Her  own  loneliness  fell  heavily 
upon  Miss  Deborah,  in  a  way  she  had  never  felt  since 
her  dead  brother's  child  had  come  to  her,  years  before. 
And  this  was  to  be  the  end!  Men  were  brute  beasts! 
and  girls  blind,  senseless  fools!  She  wondered  whoever 
the  man  was  who  had  done  this  thing.  And  Christmas 
only  a  day  or  two  off!  It  would  be  a  Happy  Christ- 
mas for  both  of  them!  Poor  Margaret!  Her  own 
condemnation  of  Hettie  Ryott  to  the  girl,  long  ago, 
had  frightened  her  away.  God  knows  she  had  meant 
well! 

As  she  drank  her  tea  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  empty 
cup  and  saucer  and  the  few  crumbs  that  were  the  only 


60  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

signs  of  the  otHer  having  breakfasted.  Aunt  Deborah 
looked  out  at  the  morning  and  shivered. 

The  memory  of  her  words  about  Hettie  Ryott — for 
all  that  they  had  been  meant  as  a  wholesome  warning 
to  her  niece — sounded  now  in  her  ears  like  a  retribution. 
She  read  the  letter  again,  and,  after  some  considera- 
tion, she  locked  it  up  carefully.  Apparently  she  changed 
her  mind  in  regard  to  it,  however,  for  she  took  it  from 
the  drawer  again  and  placed  it  in  her  pocket. 

Ten  minutes  later,  with  a  shawl  over  her  head, 
she  crept  out  into  the  mist,  a  stricken-faced  woman, 
and  found  her  way  miserably  to  Gammer  Polgrean's 
cottage. 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  parlor,  and  she  lifted  the 
latch  and  entered.  The  old  woman  was  busy  in  the 
kitchen,  but  she  heard  her  visitor,  and  came  out  with  a 
teapot  in  her  hand. 

"Marnin  to  ee,  Deborah  Yeomans!  Likely  you'm 
be  come  .  .  ." 

At  the  sight  of  Aunt  Deb's  face  she  stopped. 

"Trouble  ?  Ay  me,  trust  en  to  know  it,  my  dear !  .  .  . 
'Tis  never  'bout  the  maid,  surelie!" 

Aunt  Deb  thrust  the  letter  out  to  her,  and  collapsed 
in  a  chair.  Gammer  Polgrean  fetched  a  cup  and  saucer 
for  the  other,  and  poured  her  out  a  dose  of  strong  black- 
looking  tea.  Then  she  went  to  the  light  and  read  the 
letter  through,  once,  twice,  slowly,  the  while  Aunt  Deb 
watched  her  face  from  hopeless  eyes. 

"Ay,  ay,  'tis  zummat!"  the  old  woman  said  at  length. 
"An  I  do  say,  even  to  a  single  woman  like  yerself,  De- 
borah Yeomans,  we  'em  arl  alike  when  our  toime  be 
come  and  th'  man.  That  Margret  o'  yourn  be  cut  out 
fer  children,  be't  bearin'  or  buryin'  o'  en!  .  .  .  Nary  a 
word  but  good  'bout  the  lass  '11  they  learn  o'  Gammer 
Polgrean.  'Tis  right  and  proper  in  her  to  b'lieve  so 
'twould  be.  Nary  a  word  but  good  '11  your  Margret 
have  from  me,  Deborah  Yeomans,  fer  rtis  a  good  lass, 
trouble  or  no !  .  .  .  Be'en  got  in  lawful  bed,  or  be  en  by- 
blows  that  comes  o'  maids  caught  kissin'-hot  outdoors, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  61 

they'm  God  Almighty's  meanin'  for  us  women,  is  childer, 
I  do  say." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  on  the  corner  of  her  blue  cotton 
apron,  and  came  over  to  her  guest,  coaxing  her  to  drink 
tea.  Then  she  went  on: 

"I've  told  parson  that  same,  any  time  this  fifty  year 
an  mo,  f er  zez  th'  Lard,  be  fruitful  and  multiply,  he  zez ; 
an  I  up  and  told  Him  straight  to  's  face,  an,  no  doubt, 
a  mort  o'  angels  nigh  on  en  to  take  it  arl  down.  'God 
Almighty,'  I  zez,  'never  you  spoke  a  truer  word  neyther!' 
Aaften  I've  had  that  Margret  o'  yourn,  Deborah  Yeo- 
mans,  wi  me  to  Holt  an  back,  an  aaften  I've  thought 
many's  the  time  I'd  a  been  glad  to  give  this  right  hand, 
and  welcome,  fer  sech  a  maid  fer  one  o'  my  poor  dead 
boys.  Arl  o'  en  died  single  men,  in  heathen  lands,  poor 
souls,  wi  nary  a  Christian  wife  among  the  three  on  en. 
.  .  .  An  if  so  be  you'm  likely  to  feel  shame  on  her,  fer 
bein  kinderd  o'  yourn,  while  Gammer  Polgrean's  alive 
she's  a  whome,  has  Margret.  Ay,  an  mebbe  'twill 
be  news  to  ee,  Deborah  Yeomans,  but  John  Dale, 
the  laryer  man  to  Shapston,  he  drarn  it  arl  up;  an  it's 
in  th'  will,  sealed  and  settled  'tis,  that  Margret 
has  th'  cottage  an  arl  th'  estate  an  monies  o'  Mary 
Anne  Lohibah  Polgrean,  deseized,  when  I'm  garn. 
Fer  aaften  I've  zed  to  mysel,  at  sight  o'  that  lass  o' 
yourn,  ther  be  gwoain  as  good  a  wife  as  mebbe, 
wastin,  wi  nary  a  husban;  .an  now  'tis  arl  out,  to  be 
sure!" 

Gammer  Polgrean,  a  judge  of  her  sex,  knew  by  in- 
troducing, at  such  a  time  as  this,  the  matter  of  her  will 
and  how  she  had  made  Margaret  sole  legatee  of  her 
little  property,  she  would  not  only  impress  upon  her 
neighbor  that  her  affection  for  the  latter's  niece  was  be- 
yond dispute,  but  that,  also,  by  so  doing,  she  would  be 
striking  a  shrewd  blow  for  the  runaway,  by  shaming  a 
possibly  outraged  relation  into  receiving  her  kindly, 
should  the  girl  return.  Truth  to  tell,  the  old  woman, 
who  really  loved  Margaret  as  if  she  were  one  of  her 
own,  was  more  excited  than  shocked  at  the  news,  how- 


62  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

ever  much  she  might  grieve,  and  she  did  grieve  greatly, 
for  the  unhappy  girl. 

After  delivering  her  pronouncement  on  the  subject 
she  came  and  sat  by  Aunt  Deb,  encouraging  her  by  ex- 
ample to  sup  her  tea. 

In  broken  sentences  her  visitor  thanked  her  for  her 
sympathy,  and  tried  to  express  her  gratitude,  both  on  be- 
half of  herself  and  her  niece.  Gammer  was  held  in  too 
great  respect,  for  miles  round  Midford,  not  to  be  a 
most  powerful  ally;  and  few  would  care  to  cross  her,  if 
by  words  and  deeds  she  showed  her  opinion  that  Mar- 
garet was  more  sinned  against  than  sinning. 

The  curiosity  of  both  women  was  bound  before  long 
to  assert  itself  above  the  desultory  dreariness  that  was 
Aunt  Deb's  effort  at  discussion,  and  the  restrained  ex- 
citement of  the  older  woman:  around  as  to  whom  the 
man  was  the  talk  ebbed  and  flowed  for  an  hour.  At 
last  they  were  compelled  to  reject  any  probability  of  his 
being  from  the  immediate  neighborhood:  had  he  been  a 
local  there  was  always  the  chance  of  a  more  satisfactory 
conclusion.  On  the  other  hand,  if  Margaret  was  not  to 
marry  him,  it  was  better  that  he  should  be  a  stranger, 
since  they  might  get  the  girl  back  more  readily  if  that 
were  the  case. 

In  the  afternoon  Gammer  returned  the  visit,  and  found 
Miss  Deborah  "that  low" — who  had  in  the  interim  wept 
herself  dry — she  stayed  the  day  and  night  out  with 
her. 

Long  before  morning  filled  the  back  casements  of  the 
cottage  with  quiet  light  the  desolate  woman  was  reduced 
to  a  deplorable  condition.  Shame,  sin,  everything  else, 
seemed  of  small  moment  beside  the  essential  fact  that 
Margaret  was  gone. 

Gammer,  who  had  been  sitting  beside  the  girl's  bed, 
whereon  Aunt  Deb  lay,  asleep  at  last  from  exhaustion, 
went  softly  to  the  window  when  the  light  began,  and  let 
in  the  gray  sweetness  of  the  dawn.  There  was  no  mist: 
a  steady  wind  all  night  had  blown  across  Midford.  From 
the  bedroom,  that  had  hidden  how  many  dreadful  hours 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  63 

of  agony  for  the  missing  girl,  she  saw  the  beech  tops 
slowly  etched  upon  the  east. 

The  old  woman  was  by  nature  pantheistic:  a  Chris- 
tian's worship  was  for  her  more  the  convention  of  the 
Sabbath,  and  less  than  her  work-a-day  exaltations,  when 
wonders  were  revealed  to  her,  at  first  hand,  in  lonely 
places.  Though  generally  conforming  to  the  orthodox 
beliefs  of  the  neighborhood,  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
had  at  times  a  suspicion  that  the  Christ  they  acclaimed  as 
the  Son  of  God  was  of  humbler  origin.  She  had  not  re- 
jected the  established  religion,  but  because  of  her  sus- 
picions she  was  apt  to  prove  recalcitrant  on  occasion 
when  the  application  of  its  dogmas,  in  the  life  of  the 
men  and  women  about  her,  was  at  variance  with  her 
own  idea  of  the  truth  of  things. 

She  leaned  out  from  the  lattice,  her  old  eyes  lighten- 
ing, her  old  weather-worn  face  strangely  inspired,  in  the 
first  flush  of  the  day  new-born.  While  her  gaze  traveled 
the  dark  and  stirring  line  of  the  tree-tops  and  the  sky 
behind,  she  muttered  to  herself  prophetic  things,  and  a 
message  of  comfort  for  the  wanderer  who  had  fled  to- 
ward the  dawn.  The  yellow  hand  that  closed  on  the 
sill  might  have  held  more  than  the  weight  of  mortal 
years. 

"Ay,  ay,  Margret  Yeomans,  'tis  summat  t'  have 
God's  word  wi  in  en,  be  en  got  in  church-house  or  th' 
Holt;  an'  likely  'twill  be  th'  Holt  wi  ee,  my  dearie." 

The  wonder  of  the  hour  was  at  work  in  the  Holt: 
the  climbing  world  rose  out  of  the  darkness;  and  the 
fresh  light,  and  spirits  of  the  light,  came  over  the  hills 
to  meet  the  climbing  world.  Southward,  smoke  from  one 
or  two  chimneys  lingered  visible  for  a  moment,  and  was 
gone  into  a  wind  that  had  in  it  the  sound  of  many  cock- 
crows from  the  further  side  of  the  hamlet.  Midford 
was  being  initiated  into  the  presence  of  another  day  with 
heraldry  and  incense  and  voices  in  the  air. 

The  watcher,  who  had  kept  vigil  by  so  many  dawns, 
sighed,  and  drew  back  into  the  little  room.  She  won- 
dered if  she  would  ever  have  the  girl  to  herself  again,  for 


64  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

one  more  ramble  together  through  their  beloved  Holt, 
searching  for  those  wild  things  which  are  so  much  more 
than  weeds  to  those  who  understand.  She  glanced  sadly 
at  the  huddled  figure  under  the  shawl  on  the  bed;  and 
then,  going  quietly  downstairs,  began  preparations  for 
breakfast. 


CHAPTER   VII 

BEAU  VIEW  TERRACE 

THE  train  was  billed  to  stop  five  minutes  at  the  junc- 
tion for  Shapston;  being  joined  thereat  to  the  London 
express.  The  latter  was  late :  ten  miles  away,  she  was  at 
that  moment  whistling  under  a  ghostly  signal  post  in  pro- 
test at  the  delay. 

All  over  the  country  the  mists  had  moved  up  im- 
penetrable ranks  into  one  great  white  army,  that  now 
held  the  whole  air  for  hundreds  of  teemful,  tremendous 
miles. 

The  physical  excitement  of  her  flight  had  left  the 
girl  by  now,  and  she  sat  shivering  in  the  corner,  vainly 
endeavoring  to  see  across  the  intervening  platform  to 
the  main  line  beyond.  She  longed  for  another  cup  of 
tea  to  warm  her,  but  the  desire  to  hide  her  flight  was 
strong  within  her,  as  was  the  fear  of  meeting  with,  or 
being  seen  by,  someone  who  knew  herself  or  her  aunt, 
if  she  left  the  carriage.  The  waiting  was  bad  enough, 
torture,  in  its  way,  to  her  tense  nerves,  but  somehow  the 
mist  had  a  kindlier  meaning  for  her:  it  was  as  if  designed 
to  cover  up  her  flight  from  the  eyes  of  garrulous  men 
and  women.  To  the  best  of  her  belief  no  one  had  seen 
her,  as  yet,  who  would  report  and  comment  thereon  to 
poor  Aunt  Deb  or  to  Midford  gossip. 

At  last  the  express  came  in,  cautiously,  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable across  the  width  of  the  platform.  She  had 
prayed  for  a  compartment  to  herself,  and  gratefully  con- 
ceived her  prayer  as  answered  when,  after  five  minutes 
of  shouting  and  shunting,  they  drew  away  from  the  little 
junction  for  the  long  non-stop  run  to  London. 

65 


66  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

It  was,  by  now,  bitterly  cold,  with  the  penetrating 
rawness  of  atmospheres  heavy  with  moisture,  and  a  low 
thermometer.  The  whiteness  through  which  they  rushed 
grew  dirty  gray  toward  London.  Nevertheless  they 
made  good  progress  on  a  mostly  open  road.  At  length 
the  speed  dropped  to  a  crawl,  and  she  saw  the  name, 
Surbiton,  on  the  lamps,  as  they  crept  through  a  station. 
Examination  of  a  map  of  the  line  in  the  carriage  showed 
her  she  was  drawing  near  to  his  home.  Presently, 
though  running  at  some  speed,  through  the  lights  of  an- 
other station  she  caught  the  letters  of  the  word  Wimble- 
don. All  excitement,  she  looked  out  eagerly.  She  could 
see  but  little — houses  half  hidden  in  fog  that  grew  more 
yellow  and  more  dense;  then,  when  the  fog  turned  for  a 
minute  or  so  to  whitish  mists  again,  swampy  fields;  then 
houses  once  more — mean  streets,  in  which  the  flares  of 
paraffin  showed  like  the  mists  of  fire. 

With  a  shriek  the  train  plunged  through  a  phantas- 
magoria of  yellow  lights,  fog,  noise,  a  huddle  of  vaguely 
human  forms,  and  screaming  engines,  that  was  Clapham 
Junction,  into  a  yellow  darkness  beyond:  there  it  slowed 
down,  and  after  awakening  several  muffled  explosions 
from  fog  signals  outside,  eventually  came  to  a  stop  in 
Vauxhall. 

As  she  heard  the  collector  calling  out,  "All  tickets," 
Margaret  was  seized  with  a  sudden  resolve  to  alter  her 
plans.  Catching  up  her  bag,  she  got  out  of  the  train. 
She  found  a  way  through  the  choking  darkness  to  the 
"Way  Out,"  and  going  down  the  steps,  she  took  a  ticket 
for  Wimbledon. 

The  few  people  in  the  waiting-room,  where  a  big  fire 
was  blazing,  took  little  notice  of  her  as  she  entered,  des- 
perate at  last  for  warmth  and  an  escape  from  the  sul- 
phurous gloom — the  fog  which  preceded  and  followed 
her  apparently  arousing  their  hostility  more  than  any 
feeling  of  interest  and  annoyance  toward  the  white- 
faced,  red-eyed,  and  red-nosed  young  woman  who  had 
just  allowed  it  to  assert  _itself  in  the  clearer  atmosphere 
of  the  room. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  67 

She  sat  down  quietly  in  a  corner  by  herself  and,  after 
a  furtive  glance  at  the  rest  of  the  company,  began,  half 
unconsciously,  to  study  them.  They  were,  for  the  most 
part,  apparently,  dividing  their  attention  between  a  specu- 
lation as  to  the  destinies  of  one  or  two  steamers  plow- 
ing a  sea,  whose  moisture  was  emphasized  by  the  beads 
of  smoking  perspiration  that  clung  to  its  shiny  surface, 
and  listening  for  something  hidden  away  among  the 
muffled  reports  which  punctuated  the  silence  inside  and 
outside  the  room. 

She  had  decided  to  cover  up  her  traces  as  far  as  lay 
in  her  power  to  do,  and  she  had  welcomed  the  assistance 
of  the  day's  obscurity.  Now,  among  strangers  for  the 
first  time,  she  realized  how  completely  she  was  breaking 
with  the  past,  and  how  easily  she  could  lose  herself  for 
ever  from  the  one  human  being  who  was  her  only  living 
kin.  Poor  Aunt  Deb !  At  the  thought  of  her  aunt's 
many  acts  of  kindness  and  mother-love  for  herself  her 
tears  began  afresh,  and  she  forgot  everything  but  the 
misery  which  her  own  act  was  bringing  upon  herself  and 
another  woman. 

Presently  a  shout  outside  made  people  in  the  wait- 
ing-room move  with  one  accord  to  the  door.  The  train 
which  was  then  running  into  the  station  stopped  at  Wim- 
bledon— the  very  sound  of  the  name,  even  in  the  thick 
voice  of  a  porter  indifferently  shouting  it  among  a  dozen 
others — had  a  strange  excitement  for  her.  She  found 
an  empty  carriage,  wherein  she  succeeded  in  mastering 
her  tears.  When  she  got  out  at  Wimbledon  she  made 
her  way  to  the  bookstall,  and  bought  a  local  paper.  In 
the  waiting-room  she  searched  its  columns  for  apart- 
ments: apparently  they  were  plentiful  enough.  She  left 
her  bag  at  the  cloak-room  in  an  assumed  name — the 
clerk's  unexpected  question  startling  her  wits  into  a 
desperate  flurry  of  invention — and  went  forth  into  a  land 
wherein  he  dwelt,  into  his  own  country,  a  wonderful  land 
for  her.  Its  very  railway  station,  to  which  he  came  in 
the  morning  and  in  the  evening,  for  her  was  wonderful 
because  of  him;  the  gloom  into  which  she  walked  had 


68  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

been  radiant  enough  had  it  held  him  within  a  mile.  With 
hot  cheeks  she  hoped  she  would  not  meet  him:  with  a 
chill  at  her  heart  she  dared  do  nothing  but  hope  that 
one  day,  at  least,  they  must  meet  again. 

She  turned  to  the  left:  an  errand  boy,  whistling 
strangely,  brushed  by  her,  his  basket  betokening  in  him 
a  knowledge  of  the  neighborhood.  She  stopped  him 
timidly,  and  asked  him  the  direction  of  the  road  she  men- 
tioned. Without  ceasing  the  shrillness  at  his  lips  he 
heard  her,  and  flung  out  his  disengaged  arm,  pointing  the 
way.  Then  he  darted  off  again.  There  the  fog  was 
lighter  than  in  London,  and  the  street  was  gay  with 
Christmas  decorations — a  sight  that  renewed  the  pain  at 
her  heart. 

"Yes?" — the  woman  eyed  her  indifferently  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  the  gaslight  in  the  narrow  "hall"  flickered  across 
her  face,  and  decided  on  the  "Miss." 

Yes,  they  had  got  a  bed-sitting-room  to  let  furnished. 
She  spoke  rather  doubtfully. 

Margaret  told  her  she  would  be  wanting  a  clean 
cheap  lodging  for  a  week  or  two  while  she  looked  about 
for  a  situation. 

Mrs.  Scrannell  eyed  her  suspiciously  for  a  moment 
or  two.  She  had  let  for  too  many  years  not  to  feel  doubt- 
ful of  everyone — let  alone  young  women  who  wanted  a 
clean,  cheap  lodging  for  a  week  or  two.  She  was  a  color- 
less woman  who  somehow  made  one  instinctively  in- 
dulge in  speculations  regarding  the  likeness  of  the  male 
who  has  bestowed  the  dignity  of  Scrannell  upon  her. 

There  would  be  no  men  calling  to  see  her? 

The  interrogation  brought  a  blush  to  Margaret's  pale 
face,  although  she  was  quite  innocent  of  the  real  thought 
which  it  cloaked. 

"Oh,  no!" 

The  lady  of  the  house  seemingly  considered  the  girl's 
obvious  color  as  a  favorable  sign,  for  she  disappeared  at 
once  into  the  back,  and  returned  with  a  lighted  candle. 
Experience  had  taught  her  that  they  never  blushed  after 
it  got  to  "men" — "gentlemen"  was  the  female  lodger's 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  69 

euphemism,  as  tacitly  observed  and  respected  by  land- 
ladies, during  peace,  as  it  was  pointedly  ignored  or  openly 
repudiated  by  the  latter  in  times  of  strife;  when  such 
lodgers  were  asked  to  take  themselves  off,  bag  and  bag- 
gage, or  be  took  off  by  the  perlice  for  bringing  redispute 
on  honest  women  comin'  in  all  hours  of  the  night,  in- 
deed! Blushes  meant  "a  man" — generally  "gentleman" 
if  employed  in  any  shop,  office,  or  hair-cutting  saloon — 
and  the  singular  stood  for  Respectability  with  a  capital  R, 
by  comparison  with  the  plural,  which  Mrs.  Scrannell  was 
well  aware  meant  Trouble  with  a  capital  T,  not  to  men- 
tion with  the  police  and  her  neighbors,  who  were  zealous 
for  morality  in  other  people. 

Margaret  followed  her  up  two  flights  of  narrow 
stairs,  and  was  invited  to  step  in  and  have  a  look  at  them. 

"They"  consisted  of  one  room,  with  a  bed  at  one 
end  and  a  fireplace  at  the  other.  In  the  latter  was  fitted 
a  small  kitchen-range,  with  a  miniature  gas-cooking  ap- 
paratus standing  upon  it.  In  the  middle  of  the  room 
some  dark-colored  curtains  hung  from  a  bamboo  pole: 
they  could  be  drawn  across  should  the  proprieties  de- 
mand such  a  thing.  The  furniture  passed  by  abrupt  stages 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  bedroom  type — neither  "room" 
being  overcrowded  in  this  respect.  A  deal-topped  table 
showed  signs  of  wear,  but  it  had  been  well  scrubbed. 

The  woman  hastened  to  assure  her  of  their  extraordi- 
nary comfort  and  cleanliness,  and  inquired,  in  a  tentative 
voice,  did  she  want  to  be  done  for.  Receiving  an  answer 
in  the  negative,  she  appeared  relieved — no  doubt  with 
recollections  of  the  stairs  in  the  "doing  for"  part  of  the 
program. 

Seven  shillings  a  week  she  was  asking  for  the  rooms, 
which  was  dirt  cheap  at  it.  They  had  lately  been  occu- 
pied by  a  most  respectable  party — a  press  gentleman, 
who,  unfortunately,  had  required  such  doing  for  during 
the  day,  since  mostly  he  worked  at  night,  that  Mrs.  Scran- 
nell's  varicose  veins  had  been  repeatedly  subjected  to  cruel 
and  even  incredible  strains.  The  press  gentleman  had 
been  called  away  hurriedly  to  a  more  remunerative  po- 


7o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

sition  on  a  Glasgow  evening  paper,  but,  according  to  a 
picture  postcard  to  his  late  landlady,  he  had  searched  so 
far  in  vain  for  such  comfort  at  the  price  as  he  had  en- 
joyed at  Beau  View  Terrace;  and  she  opined  to  Mar- 
garet: Though  she  said  it  herself,  he  was  likely  to  search. 

The  girl  paid  a  week's  rent  in  advance,  and  went 
back  wearily  to  the  station  for  her  "luggage."  Before  re- 
turning to  number  five  Beau  View  Terrace  she  decided 
to  adopt  the  name  of  Margaret  Young — which  would 
not  contradict  the  initials  on  her  slender  stock  of  linen. 

Mrs.  Scrannell  answered  the  knock,  and,  seeing  the 
girl's  tired  eyes  and  face,  asked  her,  not  unkindly,  to  step 
into  the  kitchen  and  have  a  bite  of  dinner  with  her.  She 
agreed  gratefully;  she  was  already  becoming  weak  for 
want  of  food,  and  she  forced  herself  to  eat  most  of  the 
hashed  mutton  that  her  hostess  placed  before  her. 

"Scrannell  '11  be  in  in  a  minute,  but  you  needn't  go 
for  to  put  yerself  out  for  Mm,"  his  lady  remarked,  soon 
after  they  sat  down. 

His  latchkey  opened  the  front  door  as  she  spoke, 
and  he  appeared  in  the  kitchen  with  a  nod  and  a 
"Mornin',  miss,"  to  Margaret,  and  a  wheezy  cough  that 
had  in  it  something  in  keeping  with  the  atmosphere  of 
wet  earth,  size,  and  fog  which  he  brought  with  him.  He 
was  a  working  foreman  to  one  of  the  small  "builders 
and  house  decorators"  who  developed  and  decorated  the 
district,  between  intervals  of  recurring  bankruptcies, 
whenever  they  had  a  chance.  A  stout,  red-faced  man, 
to  Margaret's  relief,  he  apparently  found  his  dinner  of 
more  substantial  interest  than  he  found  a  strange  young 
woman.  He  divided  his  attentions  between  a  methodical 
search  among  the  hash  for  pieces  of  the  gray-colored  fat 
that  seemed  to  relieve  his  cough,  and  a  dirty  newspaper 
on  the  table  beside  him,  which  he  read  with  a  stolid  air. 

At  almost  regular  intervals,  it  seemed,  he  accom- 
panied his  reading  by  solemn  if  otherwise  somewhat 
spiritless  suggestions  to  a  Deity  anent  the  advisability 
of  removing  his  eyesight.  As  these  suggestions  had  been 
consistently  ignored  since  the  age  of  at  least  seven,  it 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  71 

may  be  that  they  had  lost  all  exact  significance  for  Mr. 
Scrannell,  and  were  merely  in  the  nature  of  a  formula 
he  repeated  unthinkingly,  to  express  delight,  disgust,  ap- 
probation, dissent,  light  or  dark,  hot  or  cold.  At  times, 
on  the  point  of  utterance,  he  checked  himself,  obviously 
in  deference  to  the  strange  young  woman  present;  at 
others,  habit  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  the  expression 
in  all  its  dispassionate  piety  passed  from  him  unheeded 
to  the  hash  or  the  printed  page.  But,  perhaps,  his  most 
essential  characteristic  was  his  punctuality  at  meal  times. 

His  wife  seemed  to  possess  the  faculty  of  detaching 
herself  from  her  environment  in  a  marked  degree.  She 
ate  thoughtfully  and  in  silence  for  some  time,  having 
relapsed  into  abstraction  after  a  few  inquiries  as  to  her 
new  lodger's  knowledge  of  the  neighborhood. 

At  last  her  lord  finished  his  plate  by  a  dexterous 
spiral  movement  with  a  piece  of  bread  crust — as  he  might 
have  wiped  a  joint  in  his  plumbing  operations — and  she 
seized  the  opportunity  to  introduce  Margaret  to  him  as 
"our  new  top  floor,  Alf."  This  she  did  from  force  of 
habit — experience  having  shown  her  the  unadvisedness 
of  introducing  anything  or  anybody  to  her  husband  in 
precedence  of  his  midday  meal. 

That  oracle  responded  without  enthusiasm,  but,  after 
replenishing  his  glass  from  a  large  bottle  of  beer,  he  ex- 
panded considerably,  and  hoped  she  would  make  herself 
at  home  and  comfortable-like. 

As  he  said  it,  the  incongruity  for  her  of  "home,"  as 
applied  to  life  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scrannell,  came  drear- 
ily to  her,  and  it  cost  her  an  effort  to  compose  herself 
sufficiently  to  thank  him  without  attracting  attention.  He 
rose,  and,  sweeping  from  his  waistcoat  on  to  the  table- 
cloth particles  of  earthy  matter  and  breadcrumbs,  he  took 
a  chair  near  the  fire,  and,  after  asking  her  permission 
to  smoke,  produced  a  clay  pipe  that  had  seen  much  ser- 
vice. 

When  he  presently  left  to  go  back  to  his  work,  Mar- 
garet, fearing  a  possible  cross-examination  at  the  hands 
of  Mrs.  Scrannell,  made  mention  of  "shopping"  she  had 


?2  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

to  do,  and,  shortly  after  its  master,  she,  too,  left  the 
house. 

The  fog  was  thickening  again  as  she  found  her  way 
to  The  Broadway,  where  the  lights  of  the  shops  infused 
cheerfulness  through  the  pervading  gloom.  She  pur- 
chased some  note-paper  and  envelopes,  and,  going  into 
the  public  library,  wrote  a  letter  to  her  aunt,  stating  that 
she  had  reached  London  safely,  that  she  would  be  sure 
to  write  every  week,  and  concluded  by  again  telling  her 
aunt  how  much  she  loved  her,  and  how  sure  she  was  she 
had  done  the  only  proper  thing  under  the  circumstances. 
Remembering  that  to  post  the  letter  in  Wimbledon  would 
convey  an  idea  as  to  her  whereabouts,  she  went  back 
to  the  station,  caught  a  train  to  Vauxhall,  and  posted 
the  letter  there. 

Evening  was  coming  on  by  the  time  she  got  out  at 
Wimbledon  on  her  return — the  journeys  of  a  few  miles 
having  taken  her  nearly  two  hours  in  the  fog.  As  she 
waited  in  the  crowd  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading  from 
the  platform,  a  man  turned  his  head  and  looked  back  a 
moment  over  his  shoulder.  Such  rays  of  the  lamp  as 
reached  his  face  scarcely  penetrated  the  fog  to  where 
he  was  standing,  but  she  was  so  close  behind  him  she 
could  almost  have  touched  his  back. 

Her  lover  was  standing  in  front  of  her. 

When  she  realized  it  her  heart  began  to  beat  so  rap- 
idly that  she  could  hardly  breathe.  By  the  time  she  had 
recovered  he  was  halfway  up  the  stairs  and  lost  in  the 
darkness.  She  struggled  through  the  crowd  out  of  the 
station  after  him.  Once  outside  she  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  along  the  main  street  to  the  right,  where 
the  lights  from  the  shops  enabled  her  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  people  on  the  pavement.  The  lights  left  off  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill.  Just  before  she  reached  it  she  saw 
his  tall  figure  show  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  below  a 
lamp,  to  be  swallowed  up  again  immediately.  She  was 
sure;  and  she  ran  forward  easily,  since  there  was  now 
no  crowd  to  blunder  against  in  her  excitement.  He 
walked  fast,  but,  by  running  every  now  and  then,  she 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  73 

kept  close  behind  him  all  the  way  up  the  hill.  She  was 
breathless  by  the  time  they  reached  the  top.  The  im- 
pulse to  speak  to  him  had  been  almost  too  much  for  her, 
but  something  had  held  her  back.  Somehow  she  could 
not. 

The  next  moment  he  had  disappeared.  She  struck 
into  a  wall  and  stopped  helplessly. 

For  a  few  moments  she  stood  recovering  from  her 
exertions  in  the  choking  atmosphere.  A  great  darkness 
had  fallen  upon  everything:  sound  seemed  to  have  ceased. 
After  some  groping  about  by  walls  and  curbstones  she 
felt  the  slope  of  the  hill  under  her  again.  Notwith- 
standing the  sinister  shadow  that  had  silenced  the  friendly 
voices  of  the  familiar  air  and  put  away  the  homely  like- 
ness of  the  earth,  contentment  had  come  to  her,  and  with 
it  a  pleasant  languor  stole  over  her  senses.  If  only  she 
could  find  herself  in  bed  now,  how  she  could  sleep !  She 
reached  Beau  View  Terrace  at  last;  and  half  an  hour 
later  was  deep  in  the  profound  slumber  of  physical  weari- 
ness. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

"HIS  MOTHER" 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve.  Margaret  awoke  in  her  new 
surroundings,  and  stared  at  the  strange  wall-paper  as 
if  she  were  striving  to  find,  among  the  excesses  of  its 
tempestuous  and  terrific  flora,  something  that  would  ac- 
count for  her  present  situation,  and  its  relation  to  her 
past  life.  The  continuity  of  things  had  been  so  broken 
by  her  long  sleep  that  for  a  moment  recent  events  re- 
mained in  her  memory  like  the  confused  phantasies 
rambling  through  the  inchoate  panoramas  of  a  dream. 
As  she  lay  there,  collecting  her  thoughts,  the  sound  of  a 
passing  train — a  thing  previously  unheard  by  her  in  bed  at 
Midford — brought  with  it  a  sense  of  allocation;  and 
reality  with  its  burden  of  sorrows  was  with  her  once 
more.  A  moment,  and,  figuratively  speaking,  she  had 
torn  open  the  imaginary  pack,  and  had  dragged  out  the 
one  joy  it  contained.  She  found  it  instantly;  and,  at  the 
thought  of  his  comparative  proximity  to  her,  she  sat  up 
and  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  nearly  nine.  The  fog 
had  gone.  She  rose,  and  shivered  as  she  saw  the  shabby 
furniture,  the  dirty  windows,  with  the  smear  of  smoky 
dampness  still  clinging  to  everything  in  the  room. 

She  had  seen  him  again!  She  must  find  out  where 
he  lived — then  she  would  know  where  to  look  for  him : 
so  would  she  be  able  to  satisfy  some  of  the  craving  in 
her  soul  that  he  represented.  When  the  child  came  she 
would  have  something  of  his  to  live  for  .  .  .  She  must 
let  her  aunt  know,  of  course,  of  her  whereabouts  before 
it  happened,  in  case  anything  happened  to  her.  Her 
aunt  would  take  the  baby,  she  felt  sure. 

Busy  with  such  thoughts  and  her  toilet,  she  contrived 

74 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  75 

to  hold  back  her  tears  of  yesterday,  and,  by  the  time  she 
had  made  a  cup  of  tea  and  cooked  a  rasher  of  bacon  in 
the  small  frying-pan  she  had  bought  the  previous  day, 
she  was  almost  cheerful. 

She  threw  open  the  window.  The  morning  was  mild : 
a  strong  breeze  from  the  west  had  swept  the  place  clear 
of  fog.  Breakfast  over,  she  went  out  into  a  long,  straight 
thoroughfare  of  red-brick  houses,  mostly  of  the  Beau 
View  Terrace  type,  on  either  side.  Two  or  three  green- 
grocer's carts,  on  which  were  much  mistletoe  and  holly, 
stood  about  in  the  road;  a  greasy-looking  man  with  a 
greasy  voice  bawled  at  intervals,  "English  fat  rabbits!" 
a  few  women  were  cleaning  their  several  doorsteps,  and 
left  off  a  moment  to  stare  up  at  her  as  she  passed:  she 
reached  the  main  road,  and,  eager  with  another  and  dif- 
ferent curiosity,  hurried  by  the  long  row  of  shops  with- 
out stopping  to  examine  the — for  her — many  wonders 
they  contained.  At  last  she  found  herself  at  the  top  of 
the  hill  where  two  roads  crossed  each  other  at  nearly 
right  angles.  Here  it  was  she  had  lost  him  in  the  fog  the 
night  before.  Thinking  of  that  other  Crossways  where 
he  had  found  her,  she  followed  the  main  road,  and, 
presently,  came  out  upon  the  edge  of  a  broad  level  plain 
with  trees  and  a  windmill  on  the  far  side.  A  footpath 
led  across  the  middle  of  it,  and  this  she  followed — won- 
dering at  the  sudden  transition  into  the  country  again, 
and  as  to  where  it  was  he  lived.  At  length  she  reached 
the  edge  of  a  wide  valley,  thickly  wooded,  with  the  op- 
posite hills  clearly  defined  under  the  white  light  of  the 
December  morning.  She  wandered  on,  down  into  the 
woods  of  birch  and  oak:  as  solitary  as  Midford  Holt 
itself  the  place  seemed. 

As  she  followed  a  sandy  ride  that  cut  through  the 
wood  the  thud  of  hoofs  behind  her  made  her  start  and 
turn  round  involuntarily.  A  man  on  a  bright  chestnut 
cob  was  coming  toward  her  at  a  hand  gallop.  She  walked 
on  again  hurriedly.  As  he  overtook  her  he  pulled  up 
into  a  slow  trot  to  avoid  smothering  her  with  the  loose 
earth  and  slush  of  the  narrow  ride. 


76  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

She  had  turned  her  head  again.  For  a  moment  she 
stood  stock  still,  impotent  at  the  sight  of  him — her  wits 
scattered  by  the  rush  of  his  coming;  then  she  walked 
on,  but  it  was  too  late.  He  had  recognized  her,  and, 
snatching  up  his  horse,  James  Burkett  jumped  down  be- 
side her. 

"Margaret!" 

His  face,  ruddy  a  moment  before  with  health  and 
exercise,  grew  suddenly  pale. 

She  stood  before  him,  with  her  color  coming  and 
going,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  helpless,  speechless, 
under  the  stress  of  her  emotions — her  plans  frustrated 
at  the  outset.  To  her,  discovery  there  seemed  tantamount 
to  a  discovery  of  everything.  He  saw  her  agitation, 
and  turned  away  to  the  cob,  which  had  commenced  to 
nibble  at  the  grass-grown  ditch  beside  the  ride.  He 
reached  down  mechanically  and  took  hold  of  the 
bridle;  then  he  dropped  it  again  and  came  back  to 
her. 

At  last  her  woman's  wits  were  coming  to  her  aid. 
Smiling  faintly  she  held  out  her  hand,  but  words  would 
not  come. 

He  took  it;  the  underwood  just  there  was  thick; 
the  place  altogether  deserted  save  for  the  two.  They 
might  be  back  again  in  Midford  Holt,  for  any  sign  there 
was  of  civilization.  He  stooped  down  and  kissed  her. 
There  were  dark  blue  rings  under  her  eyes,  he  noticed, 
also  that  her  face  had  gone  very  white. 

"My  poor  girl!  Whatever's  the  matter?"  he  be- 
gan; and  she  read  the  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"Nothing,  Jim,  only  ...  I  couldn't  help  it  ...  I 
...  I  got  tired  of  Midford  after  you'd  gone  .  .  .  and 
I  found  the  letters  on  the  tree  .  .  .  and  I  felt  I  must 
see  you  again,  and  ...  I  corned  up  to  try  and  get  a  situ- 
ation up  here,"  she  said;  adding  hurriedly:  "I'm  going 
back  again  to-day  ...  but  I'll  be  back  again  after 
Christmas." 

He  held  her  from  him  a  little,  and  searched  her  eyes. 
She  was  in  a  torment  of  almost  unendurable  pain:  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  77 

misery  which  reflected  itself  in  her  face  cut  into  his  care- 
less soul  like  a  knife. 

"Margaret,"  he  said,  grown  very  grave  for  him,  "is 
that  all?"  His  voice  was  thick:  he  was  face  to  face  with 
what  might  easily  prove  tragedy.  He  was  man  enough, 
for  all  his  light-hearted  boyishness,  to  face  it,  and  to  face 
it  then.  "Tell  me,  dear,"  he  said  very  gently.  "Now!" 

A  great  thankfulness  lifted  her  up,  and,  in  a  mo- 
ment, all  signs  of  her  agitation  had  gone.  He  had  un- 
consciously lightened  the  load  for  her;  her  sacrifice  would 
be  an  easy  thing  now — now  that  she  could  choose. 

Therefore  she  spoke  the  lie  without  flinching;  nor 
would  she  let  his  evident  relief  hurt  her  again. 

James  Burkett  straightened  himself  up  and  whistled. 
"Phew!  You  gave  me  a  bit  of  a  turn,  dear,"  he  said 
mirthlessly. 

"Oh,  Jim!  I  never  meant  to  do!  You  know  that, 
don't  you,  Jim,  dear?" 

"Yes,  that's  all  right,  girlie,  only  .  .  .  Well,  dear, 
if  anything  had  happened  to  you  I  must  have  married 
you  for  the  sake  of  the  kid  and  both  of  you,  but  there 
would  have  been  the  devil  to  pay  with  my  people — the 
guv-nor  would  have  cut  me  off  without  a  bloomin'  bob, 
ItwHbet!" 

A  lesser  woman  might  have  reminded  him  of  the 
tardiness  of  such  remembrance.  She  was  conscious  only 
of  another  difficulty  his  words  had  suggested :  ought  she 
not  to  tell  him?  for  his  own  sake?  for  the  child's?  If 
he  knew,  and  insisted  upon  marrying  her,  she  saw  the 
hateful  host  of  women  who  would  pity  him,  and  point 
her  out  as  one  that  had  laid  a  trap  for  the  man  she  loved. 
His  love  would  not  stand  a  year  of  it,  she  knew  only  too 
well.  Out  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived,  away  some- 
where in  the  country,  he  might  be  happy  enough  with  her : 
she  had  no  doubt  of  her  ability  to  make  him  a  good 
wife.  As  it  was,  it  was  a  hopeless  muddle  to  her  young 
brain.  The  problem  was  beyond  her,  and  attempt  to 
solve  it,  save  by  the  plan  her  social  intuition  prompted, 
only  seemed  to  increase  her  bewilderment. 


78  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"You'll  be  wanting  to  marry  a  lady,  Jim,  of  course !" 
Jim  did  not  want  to  marry  anybody.  He  was  one 
of  those  young  men  for  whom  life,  like  bread  and  butter, 
tasted  better  and  altogether  different  out  of  doors.  Rug- 
ger and  cricket,  since  he  had  left  Cambridge,  were  the 
chief  safety-valves  for  that  superabundant  animal  en- 
ergy which  accumulated  in  the  sedentary  intervals  of 
city  life.  Racing  provided  for  his  mental  recreation  a 
pleasant  and  sufficient  hobby.  Women  acted  upon  him 
either  as  aphrodisiacs,  or  as  wet  blankets  that  damped 
the  atmospheres  of  his  exuberant  masculinity.  If  he 
gazed  on  the  wine  somewhat,  until  the  inevitable  color- 
blindness ensued  at  times,  he  was  no  drunkard — his  lapses 
from  sobriety  being  the  direct  result  of  that  boisterous 
good-fellowship  which  a  hardly  contested  game  en- 
genders or  a  "long-priced  winner"  inspires.  Of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  many  young  Britons.  He  would  be  ex- 
pected to  marry  sooner  or  later;  but,  with  a  girl  like 
Margaret  for  his  mistress,  he  was  content  to  relegate 
his  conjugal  destinies  to  a  very  indefinite  future.  If  he 
played  with  fire  he  must  be  prepared  to  take  the  risks 
incidental  to  such  amusement;  and  no  sport  was  sport 
unless  there  was  some  risk  in  it.  Life  was  a  game  to 
James  Burkett;  but  he  played  it  straight — at  least  as  he 
understood  straightness.  His  relations  with  the  girl 
who  had  given  him  her  all  had  already  aroused  certain 
uncomfortable  doubts  respecting  his  preconceived  notions 
of  fair  play.  He  began  to  realize,  empirically, — the 
only  method  by  which  he  could  arrive  at  such  a  con- 
clusion— that,  in  the  Social  Handicap,  woman  is  often 
set  to  give  too  much  weight  away.  That  wasn't  his  fault, 
however,  and  it  was  no  use  crying  over  it,  though  he 
wanted  to  do  the  right  thing,  of  course.  In  his  way  he 
loved  her.  He  told  himself  so,  though  he  omitted  to 
tell  her  again — he  did  not  want  to  encourage  her  in  the 
idea  of  a  possible  marriage  between  them,  however  much 
he  wanted  her  body.  But  as  his  mistress  .  .  .?  Oh, 
yes!  he  loved  her  right  enough — who  wouldn't? 

Her  paleness  had  gone,  and  her  cheeks  were  stained 


'THRACIAN  SEA"  79 

with  a  flush  that  flickered  as  the  struggle  went  on  within 
her. 

She  was  a  very  lovable  little  woman — she  was  little 
to  his  six  feet  of  height:  there  was  the  very  spirit  of  the 
open  air  about  her,  somehow,  thought  James. 

They  were  standing  close  together,  and  Margaret 
wondered  if  he  could  hear  her  heart  beating.  Her 
pulses  seemed  to  be  hurrying  in  unison  with  the  stream 
in  the  ditch  beside  them  that  broke  the  earth-silence  with 
its  continual  burden  of  small  voices  swelling  into  a  flurry 
of  liquid  song. 

All  around  them  a  mist  of  birch  twigs  glowed,  ma- 
roon-colored, under  the  white  skies  of  the  winter's  morn- 
ing. Down  there  in  the  little  valley  through  which  the 
ride  ran — one  of  the  several  wooded  hollows  that  fur- 
row the  western  slopes  of  the  common — they  seemed  as 
completely  isolated  as  they  had  been  in  those  stolen  hours 
of  passion  in  far-off  Midford  Holt. 

"Margaret,  you  must  let  me  see  you  as  soon  as  you 
return,  to  wish  my  little  woman  a  Happy  New  Year,  eh, 
dear?"  he  said,  smiling.  "Tell  you  what,  meet  me  to- 
day week  in  the  evening.  In  the  Windmill  Road.  Half 
past  six,  say?" 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated,  then  she  yielded — it 
would  be  for  the  last  time. 

At  that  he  took  her  to  him  again,  and  kissed  her  into 
the  oldest  of  all  obedience. 

At  last  he  loosed  her,  and,  going  to  the  cob,  gathered 
up  the  reins,  while  she  moved  instinctively  to  him — with 
something  like  a  suggestion  of  playfulness  holding  the 
iron  ready  for  his  lifted  boot. 

Her  pure  gray  eyes  clung  to  his  as  he  settled  him- 
self in  the  saddle:  a  hasty  look  up  and  down  the  ride, 
and  he  bent  down  to  her,  while  she  reached  up  and  kissed 
him  good-bye. 

He  rode  on  down  into  the  valley;  and  she  retraced 
her  steps  slowly,  happy  with  the  happiness  that  was  soon 
to  be  what  the  world  would  call  her  shame.  He  had 
wished  her  a  Happy  Christmas  as  he  rode  away.  Yes! 


8o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

She  meant  to  be  happy  this  Christmas!  The  next  .  .  .? 
She  would  put  such  thoughts  away  from  her  entirely  for 
to-day  and  to-morrow. 

She  reached  the  open  heath  again,  where  the  west 
wind  was  singing,  through  the  bents,  a  consonance  of 
that  other  song  the  stream  was  singing  through  the  wood. 
In  her  heart  the  Song  of  the  World  found  the  echo  that 
it  finds  in  hearts  that  have  not  forgotten  the  primal  dews, 
where  man  and  woman,  calling  to  each  other,  climbed 
first  upon  the  hills  that  fed  swift  streams  of  sense  that 
were  to  feed  deep  waters  of  the  soul.  Her  lips  took 
it  up:  she  sang  suddenly,  as  an  autumn  skylark  wakes 
the  silent  time  of  birds  with  echoes  of  the  spring. 

Wherefore  she  answered  his  shouted  "Happy  Christ- 
mas!" and  "Good-bye!"  with  a  cheerful  voice  when  he 
cantered  past  her  again,  halfway  across  the  heath.  He 
did  not  stop :  he  had  explained  to  her  that  it  was  better 
that  they  should  not  be  seen  together.  Presently  she 
saw  him  pull  up,  and  talk  to  some  ladies,  and  the  sight 
slew  the  song  in  her  heart  with  a  thousand  arrows  of 
jealous  pain.  Then  she  remembered  that  he  had  not 
raised  his  hat:  they  would  be  his  mother  and  sister;  and 
Margaret  had  the  curiosity  of  her  sex. 

She  trembled  as  she  drew  near  to  other  women  for 
whom  the  world  had  given  a  right  to  her  lover.  The 
younger  of  the  two  was,  obviously,  his  sister.  He  kept 
his  back  toward  Margaret,  and  her  face  flushed  and  she 
bit  her  lips  at  the  sight.  Neither  of  the  two  ladies  no- 
ticed the  plainly  dressed  young  woman  who  was  wonder- 
ing why  she  could  not  look  at  the  elder  of  the  two,  as 
she  passed,  even  though  she  was  his  mother.  The  menace 
of  an  acquired  convention  struck  her  spirit,  and,  somehow, 
she  felt  herself  a  guilty  woman  who  had  lost  her  right 
to  happiness;  while,  as  she  hurried  on,  the  glory  of  the 
morning — pale  golden  with  sunlight  now — seemed  to 
mock  her  with  its  smile. 


CHAPTER   IX 

AT  KEMPTON 

SHE  passed  the  Christmas  Day  mostly  in  reading 
one  of  her  favorite  old  books.  Mrs.  Scrannell,  with 
considerable  native  tact,  managed  to  inveigle  her  new 
lodger  into  acceptance  of  a  Christmas  dinner,  which  the 
girl,  touched  by  the  woman's  way  of  attempting  to  do 
her  a  kindness,  ate  gratefully  in  the  solitude  of  her  own 
room. 

Her  landlady's  married  daughter  came  to  Beau  View 
Terrace  to  spend  the  Christmas  holiday  with  her  parents. 
That  young  woman  had  married  above  her,  in  one  sense, 
having  lured  Hymenward  "the  first  floor,"  a  former 
lodger  who  had  occupied  that  platform;  through  which, 
from  beneath,  Hiris  Hena,  the  only  Miss  Scrannell,  had 
sent  with  tremulous  suggestion  but  with  an  otherwise 
unfaltering  resolution  the  virgin  ecstasies  of  a  certain 
Virginian  wooing,  in  which  the  moon  had  ultimately  re- 
duced to  tender  subjugation  a  coon  of  much  original 
hardness  of  heart  below  a  more  than  Chesterfieldian  pol- 
ish of  exterior.  Inspired  to  heroinic  efforts  by  the  success 
of  the  maiden  in  the  ballad,  Miss  Scrannell  had  cooed 
and  twanged  and  gurgled  through  the  lath  and  plaster; 
and  a  mother's  sacrifice  for  her  daughter,  from  a  scanty 
score  of  half-crowns  invested  in  pianoforte  lessons,  had 
its  reward  at  last.  After  a  week  of  it  the  somewhat  stolid 
objective  of  the  nasal  fair  one  had  softened  to  the  extent 
of  asking  Miss  Scrannell  for  the  pleasure  of  her  com- 
pany to  a  local  music  hall;  after  a  month  he  had  capitu- 
lated utterly,  and  languished  regularly  at  Sabbath  night- 
falls in  the  clasp  of  his  betrothed.  Her  face,  a  perfect 
81 


82  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

oblong,  suitably  framed,  looked  coyly  down  from  the 
wall  above  the  instrument  that  had  helped  her  voice  to 
victory.  Photos  of  the  bridal  occasion  were  frequent  and 
familiar  objects  at  number  five — and  other  houses  in  the 
road  had  not  escaped — in  which  Mr.  Albert  Gurrick, 
holding  in  a  pair  of  very  large  hands  a  very  small  hat, 
smiled  dreadfully  henceforth  among  the  good  citizens  of 
his  age. 

He  was  in  the  County  Council.  He  escaped  on  this 
Boxing  Day  from  his  official  thraldom  to  a  sanitary  un- 
derworld, where  he  presided  over  a  menage  for  the  sub- 
terranean convenience  of  gentlemen,  and  joined  his  wife 
and  relations.  There  was,  by  now,  another  Albert  among 
the  Gurricks,  a  green-eyed  infant,  by  craniometry  an  in- 
dubitable son  of  his  sire. 

Margaret,  who  had  already  made  his  acquaintance 
on  the  previous  day,  attracted  by  baby  cries,  opened  the 
door  of  her  room  an  inch,  and  listened,  deeply  moved  by 
the  sound  that  has  echoes  longer  than  all  others  in  the 
ears  of  pregnant  women.  Ten  minutes  later  she  was  hold- 
ing him  tightly  in  her  arms,  in  a  chair  in  the  parlor,  the 
while  the  adult  Gurricks  and  Scrannells  discussed  a  pro- 
gram of  entertainment  for  the  day. 

They  decided  on  Kempton  Park,  and  invited  her  to 
make  one  of  the  party,  Mr.  Scrannell  opining  that  it 
would  cheer  her  up  "to  see  em  adoin'  it."  She  could 
only  decline;  but,  seeing  that  they  all  meant  it  kindly, 
she  jumped  at  a  chance  of  returning  an  amenity  and  sug- 
gested she  would  mind  the  now  quiescent  baby.  The  other 
women's  evident  relief  at  her  suggestion  was  manifest: 
there  was  sure  to  be  an  awful  crowd,  they  averred.  So 
they  settled  it;  and  she  inwardly  blessed  the  little  crea- 
ture for  a  respite  from  loneliness.  Presently  they  left 
the  house  after  instructing  her  in  her  duties;  and  she 
gave  herself  up  to  a  day  of  dreams;  undisturbed  by  the 
other  lodgers,  who  were  away. 

At  Kempton  Park  Captain  Coe's  "starred  nap"  and 
minor  planets  being  in  the  ascendant,  the  wealth  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Scrannell  was  largely  augmented.  Unfor- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  83 

tunately  Albert,  escaped  from  bondage  for  the  day,  in  a 
spirit  of  liberty  impatient  of  all  authority  and  which 
said  it  would  be  free,  disregarded  the  solemn  injunctions 
of  his  father-in-law  to  "follow  Captain  Coe,"  and  specu- 
lated obstinately  on  his  own  with  disastrous  results. 

He  fortified  himself  against  his  return  journey 
through  a  winter  twilight  peopled  by  his  exasperating 
failures  to  find  even  a  single  "haemorrhagic"  winner,  by 
copious  drops  of  Johnny  Walker.  His  father-in-law,  not 
without  similar  depressing  experiences  in  the  past,  felt 
in  himself  a  bounden  duty  to  avert  the  saddening  reflec- 
tions of  his  son;  more  especially  as  he  learnt  that  the 
starting  price  of  his  own  best  investment  that  day  had 
been  returned  at  just  double  the  odds  he  had  secured  on 
the  field  of  action.  The  two  were  assisted  toward  for- 
getfulness  by  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  met  with  as 
they  left  the  course,  a  maker  of  strange  mirth  and  the 
hero  of  innumerable  innocent  flirtations  with  half  the 
maids  and  matrons  in  the  Beau  View  Terrace  quarter. 
Employed  by  a  local  dairy,  his  amours  were  as  innocuous 
as  his  professional  commodity. 

He  would  burst  into  poetic  rhapsodies,  his  own  com- 
position, of  an  exuberance  that  confounded  mere  under- 
standing, or  into  violent  politics,  on  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion, with  woman  or  man  who  would  listen  to  him;  and 
there  was  something  in  his  fiery  hair  and  merry  eyes  that 
claimed  many  such  victims.  In  effusions  of  ink  he  found 
an  antidote  that  purged  his  soul  from  the  stain  of  his 
master's  milk:  a  poem  a  day  was  his  minimum  output. 
"Joe  the  poiet,"  who  was  of  Irish  origin,  also  liked  to 
have  his  bob  on,  and  "The  Star  Double,"  which  had 
failed  lamentably  on  some  score  occasions  when  he  had 
supported  it,  had  on  this  greatly  materialized.  He  pur- 
chased a  bottle  of  Irish,  therefore,  at  Hampton  Court. 

Mrs.  Scrannell  and  her  daughter  preferred  "inside." 
On  the  top  of  the  tram  the  three  sportsmen  waxed  merry; 
"Joe  the  poiet"  accompanying  the  rush  and  whistle  of 
the  wires  with  a  concertina. 

By  the  time  they  had  arrived  at  Beau  View  Terrace 


84  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

they  had  acquired  a  thirst  beyond  the  power  of  tea  to 
allay;  and  the  evening  grew  fast  and  furious. 

Margaret,  lost  without  the  baby,  which  had  been 
claimed  by  its  mother,  was  induced  to  take  a  glass 
of  wine  in  the  crowded  little  parlor;  but  the  good- 
humored  gallantry  of  Joe  eventually  frightened  her 
away. 

A  shout  of  laughter,  soon  afterward,  made  her  listen, 
in  that,  to  her,  strange  household.  Joe  had  sat  down 
suddenly  after  replenishing  his  glass,  and  had  bumped 
the  back  of  his  head  against  the  corner  of  the  sideboard. 
His  voice  roared  from  below : 

"It's  no  respeckt  ye  have  for  a  poiet  at  all,  at  all,  ye 
noisy  devils!  Suburrban  women  suckles  barbarreous 
young  in  me  very  presence,  an  oi  can't  knock  me  bhrains 
ahinst  yer  mid-Victorian  mahoguny  without  .  .  ."  (Joe 
read  much  contemporary  fiction.) 

Laughter  drowned  the  rest,  wherethrough  Mrs. 
Gurrick  shrilled  objections  of  only  half  outraged  pro- 
priety, since  no  one  could  be  really  offended  with  the  in- 
corrigible Irishman,  and  then  joined  in  the  laugh  at  her 
surreptitious  maternity. 

The  sentimental  wife  of  a  goods  guard,  who  had 
joined  the  party,  and  who  was  playfully  enamored  of 
the  red-headed  son  of  Erin,  appealed  in  a  swift  staccato 
to  him  to  come  and  sit  alongside  of  her. 

"Begor,  it's  done  with  ye,  fer  iver,  ye  Potipher  hen, 
ye,  has  this  Joseph!  Be  quiut,  an  listen  now!" 

His  concertina  started  "The  Wearin'  o'  the  Green." 

Margaret  shut  her  door  softly,  and  sat  down  by  the 
tiny  fire.  It  was  all  strange,  unnatural,  confusing,  even 
alarming  to  her  .  .  .  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scrannell,  under 
normal  conditions,  seemed  incapable  of  merriment,  yet 
they  could  put  off  the  grayness  of  their  lives  in  this 
startling  fashion.  The  sense  of  an  unreality  in  her  po- 
sition came  upon  her  in  spite  of  the  noise  below.  She 
shivered  a  little  .  .  .  Midford  Holt  seemed  so  far,  so 
very  far,  away.  The  west  wind  shook  the  blind.  She 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Above  the  reddish 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  85 

glow  from  a  multitude  of  lights  a  few  misty  stars  hung, 
vague  over  the  vague  wilderness  of  houses. 

The  wind  whispered  to  her  that  had,  perhaps,  been 
whispering  of  late  in  the  bare  woods  of  Midford.  She 
looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  eight  o'clock.  It  would 
surely  be  safe  for  her  to  go  out  now.  She  put  on  her 
things,  and  went  downstairs. 

"I'm  going  out  for  a  little,  Mrs.  Scrannell,"  she 
called. 

Her  landlady  came  to  the  door,  her  usually  white 
face  flushed  with  the  heat  of  the  room  and  glasses  of 
wine. 

"All  right,  Miss  Young.  I  'ope  as  'ow  that  drefful 
Joe  ain't  bin  too  noisy.  'Twas  that  kind  of  yer  to  mind 
the  baby;  I  don't  know  what  we'd  adone  with  'im  at 
Kempton.  Scrannell  'ad  a  good  day,  an  feels  a  bit  'appy 
like,  but  poor  old  Halbert  gorn  right  down  the  slot," 
she  added  apologetically. 

Margaret  reassured  her,  and  went  out.  She  turned 
in  a  direction  away  from  the  main  street,  and  wandered 
through  a  maze  of  quiet  roads. 

Presently  she  came  to  some  fields,  and  their  damp 
breath  soothed  her.  In  the  distance  lights  shone  brightly 
on  a  range  of  hills ;  closer  great  chimneys  towered  black 
into  the  night.  Two  lovers  came  toward  her,  whisper- 
ing, their  arms  about  each  other.  Further  on,  against  a 
fence,  a  girl  clung  abandonedly  to  a  man,  her  mouth  mov- 
ing slowly  over  his  face,  lost  to  everything  but  her  own 
sensations.  She  crossed  a  bridge :  from  the  top  the 
strange  light  in  the  sky  that  was  London  seemed  to  come 
closer  to  her.  She  stopped,  and  looked  over  at  the  shin- 
ing rails.  A  train  dashed  through,  surrounding  her  in 
silver  clouds  of  steam.  Through  them  she  saw  lovers 
locked  in  each  other's  arms;  children  asleep  on  the  seats; 
women  with  tired  faces;  men  playing  cards;  a  huge  fat 
man  drinking  out  of  a  bottle.  She  watched  the  red  tail- 
light  shrink  to  a  speck,  and  resumed  her  walk. 

A  smartly  dressed  young  man  passed  her  under  a 
lamp.  He  stopped,  and  came  back  after  her.  Half 


86  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

frightened,  she  glanced  at  his  dark  face,  with  its  bold 
eyes  and  waxed  mustache. 

"Good  evenin'." 

He  was  walking  beside  her.  The  road  was  deserted. 
She  began  to  feel  terrified  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
incident.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and  stared  at  him. 

"Please  don't!"     It  was  all  she  could  say. 

He  muttered  something,  and  went  back  again.  Ac- 
tually a  hosier's  assistant,  he  was,  to  her,  like  one  of 
the  villains  who  appeared  in  theatrical  posters  on  the 
Shapston  hoardings  from  time  to  time.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  bridge  she  began  to  cry.  If  Jim  only  knew  what 
her  feelings  were!  .  .  . 

As  she  passed  a  public-house  a  woman  outside  began 
to  scream  words  she  had  never  before  heard  from  a 
woman's  mouth,  meaningless,  horrible  things  that  froze 
her  tears  and  blood.  There  came  a  crash  of  broken 
glass  and  a  shriek,  and  a  man  struck  the  screaming  mouth 
with  his  clenched  fist.  The  woman  fell  down,  coughing 
horribly.  Margaret,  too  unnerved  to  run,  staggered 
away  from  the  patch  of  light  where  brutal  faces  peered 
at  the  dark  heap  on  the  ground. 

In  her  confusion,  after  this  incident,  she  lost  her 
way.  Two  girls  in  black  straw  hats,  with  their  hair  in 
fat  rolls  over  their  ears,  overtook  her,  talking  loudly  in 
unpleasant  tones. 

"Look  wot  she  got  along  o'  goin'  wiv  that  ere  soljer 
feller.  Done  a  guy,  'e  did,  soon  as  she  told  'im  she  was 
in  trouble.  Chaps  is  all  alike  soon  as  they've  'ad  wot 
they  wants, — em!" 

"That's  a  fack!  Still,  I  don't  know  as  'ow  it  was 
'im,  seem'  as  'ow  'e  'ad  to  gie  'er  a  lift  under  the  ear- 
'ole,  mor'n  once,  'e  did,  fer  gettin'  blind  along  o'  uvver 
blokes  in  The  Bell.'  " 

The  shrill  sibilants  of  the  two  girls  passed  on  ahead 
of  her.  What  hateful  world  had  she  suddenly  come  to? 
What  hateful  hideous  world? 

More  men  followed  her.  One,, who  was  drunk,  cried 
in  imbecile  tones  across  the  road  to  her,  "You  are  my 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  87 

oney,  oney  suckle  I  I  am  ther  b-e-e-e  I"  and  then,  catch- 
ing his  walking  stick  between  his  legs,  fell  with  a  thud 
on  the  pavement;  wherefrom  he  cursed  her  and  every- 
thing and  everybody  indifferently. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  got  back.  Mr.  Scran- 
nell  let  her  in.  His  wife  had  gone  out  to  see  their  visi- 
tors off  at  the  station.  Margaret  wished  him  good- 
night, and  dragged  herself  upstairs.  In  her  room  she 
lit  the  candle,  and  then  fell  down  in  a  faint. 

When  she  came  to  she  was  too  weak  to  feel  any- 
thing but  a  great  weariness.  With  an  effort  she  un- 
dressed and  got  into  bed.  In  a  few  minutes  sleep  had 
filled  her  senses. 

With  it  came  dreams,  through  which  red-haired  men 
played  concertinas,  and  vile  women  screamed  dreadful 
things.  At  times  she  fled  from  dark  leering  faces  by 
interminable  dim  roads:  at  others  her  lover  galloped 
toward  her  a  moment  and  then  was  gone  again.  Once 
her  arms  held  a  baby  that  was,  and  was  not,  hers,  the 
while  she  knew  that  his  mother  was  watching  her  from 
stern,  accusing  eyes.  For  a  long  time  she  dared  not  litt 
her  own,  but,  at  last,  tortured  beyond  endurance,  she  flung 
up  her  head  to  face  it  out,  and  the  dream  burst  with  a 
flash  like  a  monstrous  Christmas  cracker.  Even  as  she 
woke  she  heard,  from  the  middle  of  the  flash,  the  Irish- 
man shouting  at  her  that  his  uncle  was  the  clerk  of  the 
weather. 

The  week  dragged  past.  She  spent  the  time  as  well 
as  she  could — "writing  after"  and  applying  personally 
for  various  situations;  and  reading  one  of  her  father's 
old  books,  in  which  a  girl  who  had  loved  as  greatly  as, 
and  even  more  hopelessly  than,  herself  was  the  heroine, 
and  which  had  now  a  sort  of  fascination  for  her.  She 
was  soon  to  discover  the  difficulties  which  stood  in  the 
way  of  obtaining  a  situation,  difficulties  which  lay  in  her 
inability  to  satisfy  the  ladies  requiring  a  servant  re- 
specting her  previous  life,  and  her  efforts  were  without 
success.  They  all  seemed  to  view  her  with  suspicion. 

At  last  the  evening  arrived  when  she  was  to  meet 


88  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

him  on  the  common.  As  the  time  approached  she  was 
tormented  with  a  thousand  doubts  and  fears.  Confusion, 
that  great  weakener  of  high  resolve,  had  had  its  way  with 
her.  He  might  not  come — he  might  not  want  to  see  her 
again.  As  she  walked  through  the  quiet  streets  toward 
the  common  the  stillness  "sounded"  like  that  hush  which 
follows  the  storm-wind's  passing  tumult  and  precedes  the 
storm;  a  stillness  which  had  often  impressed  her  in  the 
past  when  she  had  listened  for  the  storms  that  at  times 
swept  down  Midford  Holt  out  of  the  north.  What  if  she 
had  overestimated  her  own  strength? — her  meeting  with 
him  had  bound  her  with  fresh  chains  about  her  soul. 
She  felt,  too,  a  lonely  wanderer  in  a  hostile  land,  where 
cold-eyed  women  sought  to  drag  her  secret  from  her, 
where  men  stared  at  her  with  greedy  eyes  or  spoke  to 
her  with  hateful  familiarity,  as  if  conscious  of  her  un- 
befriended  state,  and  that  she  was  an  outcast  and  right- 
ful prey. 

The  heath  lay  black  under  a  sky  ablaze  with  stars; 
the  night  was  darkly  clear  with  that  pellucidness  which 
is  generally  a  presage  of  rain  from  the  southwest.  She 
walked  along  the  deserted  road  beside  the  common, 
then  turned  to  the  left  up  the  road  to  the  Windmill, 
where  a  solitary  light  was  shining.  There  were  no  lamps, 
but  to  the  girl  used  to  dark  and  lonely  roads  the  place 
seemed  friendlier  than  the  streets,  and  she  thought  little 
of  personal  risks  when  she  was  on  her  way  to  meet  him. 
She  had  only  room  for  one  fear  for  the  nonce, — that  he 
would  not  come. 

A  figure  showed  suddenly  dark  against  the  darkness 
of  the  heath;  and  the  next  minute  she  was  in  her  lover's 
arms  again,  blaming  herself  for  ever  having  doubted 
him. 

They  wandered  from  the  road;  and  sat  on  a  seat 
on  the  hill  overlooking  the  Queensmere  pond,  half  hid- 
den among  the  woodlands  below. 

"It  seems  almost  like  Three  Trees,  Jim,  dear!" 

Dreaming  in  his  arms  the  girl  forgot  everything  but 
the  joy  of  his  caresses.  To-morrow  she  would  com- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  89 

mence  again  her  struggle  with  the  realities  of  her  case — 
surely  she  was  entitled  to  her  short  measure  of  hap- 
piness .  .  . 

It  went  on  for  a  month. 


CHAPTER   X 

WIMBLEDON     PARK 

THERE  are  parts  of  Wimbledon  Park  that  man  and 
nature  have  combined  to  make  as  desirable  a  residential 
district  as  any  around  London,  acclaimed  as  such  by  the 
most  exuberant  imagination  or  the  commercial  cupidity 
of  house-agents  and  their  kind.  It  has  variety,  and  ex- 
tent, and  side  by  side  proximity  to  the  miles  of  open  coun- 
try that  stretch,  from  where  its  great  houses  along  Park 
Side  watch  the  heath  and  woods,  to  the  sword-like  gleam 
of  the  spire  on  Richmond  Hill.  Again,  far  away  to 
the  east,  the  blue  hills  of  Kent  lie  lovely  with  light  and 
shade  under  morning  and  evening  skies. 

After  Battersea  I  am  frankly  envious,  in  some  ways, 
of  Wimbledon  Park;  of  its  grass-edged  winding  roads, 
of  its  houses  hidden  away  among  old  trees,  in  the  more 
secluded  parts;  of  its  old  lawns  where  daisies,  in  shin- 
ing galaxies,  are  still  allowed  to  swarm;  of  its  orchard 
and  other  flowering  trees;  of  its  echoing  voice  of  thrush 
and  blackbird  and  cuckoo  song,  its  night-time  sounds  of 
slow  and  reiterant  owls;  of  the  moonlight  that  seems 
to  fill  its  lake  to  overflow  and  flood  the  fields  around;  of 
its  woods,  where  that  beautiful  strange  visitor  that  came 
there  long  ago,  the  blue  mountain  anemone,  may  possibly 
linger  yet. 

In  passing,  here  let  me  say  that  such  people  as  in- 
habit my  Wimbledon  Park  (as  indeed  other  places  in 
this  story)  are  not  those  in  the  directory;  lest  some 
worthy  folk  imagine  themselves  indicated  and,  aggrieved 
thereat,  send  minions  of  the  Law  of  Libel  hot  upon  my 
90 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  91 

impecunious  trail.  If  much  of  this  book  has  been  written 
in  Wimbledon's  Park  or  upon  its  common,  it  has  been 
written  under  hedges  and  trees,  in  the  woods  or  the 
grasses;  myself  thankful,  in  an  age  of  Capitalism,  for  a 
green  place  where  I  could  make  acquaintances  unhin- 
dered by  difference  of  social  position  or  opinion,  and 
for  whom,  if  they  have  been  sometimes  refractory,  I 
alone  have  been  invariably  responsible.  This  without 
letting  the  envy  I  have  of  the  place  extend  to  those  who 
can  afford  to  dwell  in  it,  the  present  occupiers  of  its  ma- 
terial houses  and  prosperities.  I  know  nothing  of  these 
latter,  save  that  I  have  seen  there  many  men  I  do  not 
doubt  were  brave,  and  many  women  my  own  eyes  told  me 
were  fair.  I  have  lived  so  much  of  late  in  the  iridescent 
glass  houses  of  a  poet's  imagination  that  I  should  be 
loath  to  forget  or  infringe  a  certain  ancient  axiom.  Stones 
I  have  flung,  indeed,  at  certain  institutions  my  masters 
before  me  have  held  to  be  things  the  better  for  attack; 
at  humans  dwelling  in  houses  builded  of  hands,  no. 
Let  them,  therefore,  who  live  in  such  of  brick  and 
stone,  visit .  me  not  with  the  broken  bottles  of  their 
wrath. 

If  there  is  tragedy  in  Wimbledon,  and  love  and  ha- 
tred, and  loving  kindness,  and  spitefulness,  and  pity  and 
tenderness,  if  broken  hearts  are  there,  I  do  not  know  by 
personal  experience  or  hearsay.  If  there  are  not  these 
things  it  is  an  even  stranger  suburb  than  it  has  sometimes 
appeared  to  me,  under  the  influence  of  sunset  skies  or 
that  dream-druggery  which  takes  all  poets  by  the  breast 
at  times,  to  fill  them  with  the  lusts  of  longing  and  cre- 
ation beyond  those  of  men  plagued  merely  with  the  ele- 
mental itch  or  of  women  wild  for  the  wonders  of  ma- 
ternity. 

To  resume.  In  the  lowlands  of  the  locality,  east- 
ward, the  vulgar  herd  live  their  little  lives:  there  are 
born  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,  to  toil,  and 
breed,  and  pass  into  common  clay.  They  move  north- 
eastward, whole  regiments  of  them,  in  the  morning,  to 
the  great  city:  in  regiments  in  the  evening  they  return. 


92  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Wonderful  soldiers  of  industry,  "well  drilled  and  well 
cowed"  into  obedience  by  the  Commercial  Colossus,  who 
knows  no  wasted  lives  that  do  his  bidding;  though  at 
his  word  they  build  the  mausoleum  of  their  own  souls — a 
monument  in  one  sense  even  as  those  which  tower  and 
crumble  slowly  under  relentless  skies,  where  the  Pyra- 
mids point  their  moral  of  a  ghastly  human  waste  amid 
the  desert's  dust.  Some  few  are  hooted  in  to  work,  and 
hooted  out  again,  at  suburban  factories  nearer  home. 
For  the  most  part  it  is  an  uncomplaining  army  that  hur- 
ries to  and  fro.  They  scatter  largely  during  the  day. 
There  is  little  opportunity  for  them  to  organize  into 
fiercer  rebellion  against  the  thing  that  strikes  them  at  last 
into  a  dumb  indifference  at  their  fate.  They  have  neither 
the  circumstances  nor  the  spirit  of  the  great  manufac- 
turing places,  where  the  Soul  of  Man  is  heartening  itself 
for  the  coming  and  inevitable  grapple  with  the  modern 
Moloch.  Miles  of  streets  are  practically  empty  of  life 
at  midday,  down  there  on  the  lower  slopes,  and  in  the 
Wandle  flats  below. 

As  one  rises  toward  the  highlands  of  the  district  the 
different  strata,  social  and  geological,  are  revealed,  until, 
in  the  altitudes  of  Wimbledon  Park,  the  elite  of  its  gen- 
tility dwell  in  lofty  isolation  on  a  gravel  soil. 

There  resided  Bertram  Burkett,  Esq. — the  senior 
partner  in  the  firm  of  Burkett  and  Bowker,  silk  mer- 
chants, of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard — in  a  large  and  sub- 
stantial red-brick  construction  of  the  late  Victorian  style, 
"Downlands"  sign-written  in  plain  gold  on  its  gates,  Re- 
spectability suggested  in  its  general  aspect,  and  standing, 
as  if  to  mark  its  aloofness  from  the  way  of  common 
things  (and  quite  unlike  the  manner  of  lesser  domiciles 
in  so  doing)  in  its  own  grounds. 

The  head  of  the  Burkett  household  was  as  substan- 
tial morally  as  he  was  physically,  mentally,  financially, 
residentially.  The  honest  pride  with  which  his  bosom 
swelled  was  a  substantial  thing,  which  had  grown  in  sub- 
stance with  his  bank  balance  until  it  had  spread  to,  and 
added  an  increased  stability  to  his  anatomy  in  those  re- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  93 

gions  of  his  waistcoat  that  supported  his  substantial  gold 
watch-chain. 

On  more  than  one  occasion  he  had  seen  in  that  same 
gold  chain,  resting  upon  its  aldermanic  foundations,  an 
emblem  foreshadowing  the  civic  honors  that  one  day 
might  be  his — a  symbol  of  the  time  when  the  name  of 
Sir  Bertram  Burkett  would  be  added  to  the  roll  of  Lon- 
don's mayoral  celebrities,  to  the  names  of  the  men  that 
matter  in  the  life  history  of  the  greatest,  and  richest, 
city  in  the  world. 

A  careful  liver  was  Mr.  Burkett — as  careful  of  his 
health  as  he  was  of  his  dignity,  which  was  considerable, 
and  such  as  befitted  a  man  whom  Fortune  might  (for 
aught  one  knew  to  the  contrary)  be  even  at  that  mo- 
ment contemplating  as  a  suitable  candidate  for  the  afore- 
mentioned ancient  and  honorable  office.  He  was  about 
fifty-five,  of  florid  aspect,  and,  if  unimpressive  in  length, 
he  was  eloquent  of  the  other  dimensions.  He  had  a 
great  horror  of  vulgarity  of  any  kind,  and  wore  gold 
pince-nez  and  very  expensive  trousers.  Into  the  pockets 
of  the  latter  he  had  a  habit  of  thrusting  his  hands,  when- 
ever those  exceedingly  white  members  evinced  any  ten- 
dency to  meet  behind  his  back,  or  to  perform  certain  im- 
aginary ablutions — apparently  reminiscent  of  some  ritual 
of  his  earlier  days — that  the  appearance  of  those  "fash- 
ionable shades,"  for  which  the  house  of  Burkett  and  Bow- 
ker  was  so  celebrated,  was  generally  certain  to  evoke. 
It  was  a  great  thing,  perhaps  even  a  glorious  thing, 
after  all  the  horrors  of  history,  that  the  refining  influence 
of  Burkett  and  Bowker,  and  all  that  the  firm  stood  for 
in  life,  should  have  succeeded  greatly.  Without  depre- 
ciating Darwin's  theory  he  was  inclined  to  think  there 
might  be  more  in  Finality  than  many  supposed. 

He  was  a  self-made  man,  and,  though  the  contem- 
plation of  his  labors  in  that  direction  afforded  him  a 
never-failing  source  of  gratification  in  private,  in  public 
a  feeling  of  modesty  prevented  him  from  lending  the 
moral  principle  of  his  life  and  works  for  the  edification 
of  Wimbledon  Park. 


94  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

After  his  death,  when  his  own  modesty  would  have 
passed  beyond  the  reach  of  earthly  embarrassment,  he 
would  see  that  such  obligations  to  society  were  fulfilled. 
In  his  will  were  provision  and  instructions  for  his  Bi- 
ography; in  his  private  safe  at  Wimbledon  were  the  ma- 
terials for  that  important  work,  carefully  compiled  and 
revised  by  himself  from  time  to  time.  It  would  prove  as 
interesting  to  Posterity  as  instructive,  he  ventured  to 
think.  When,  in  the  privacy  of  his  especial  sanctum, 
the  library,  he  looked  over  or  added  to  the  precious 
MSS.,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  his  own  greatness  his 
hands  would  wash  themselves  with  a  reckless  abandon 
born  of  the  temporary  removal  of  their  burden  of 
twenty  years'  restraint,  or  they  would  fly  to  greet  each 
other  with  fervid  clasp  behind  his  back,  conscious  of 
his  mental  oblivion  as  to  their  acquaintance. 

His  lady  was  a  tall  and  dark  woman,  with  an  habitual 
air  of  one  who  has  repressed  things  so  consistently  that 
she  has  included  herself  in  the  process  without  being 
altogether  aware  of  it.  She  was  a  loyal  wife,  who  had 
nobly  seconded  her  husband  in  his  social  ambitions — 
even  to  the  extent  of  cultivating  a  particular  cough,  by 
which  she  warned  him  whenever  his  hands  began  to  take 
advantage  of  a  fit  of  abstraction  on  his  part.  A  devoted 
mother,  she  had  found  more  joy  in  her  only  son,  in  spite 
of  his  aberrations,  than  in  all  the  virtues  of  his  immacu- 
late sire;  though  she  had,  outwardly,  suppressed  all  ideas 
of  such  a  thing — excepting  in  those  rare  moments  which, 
I  am  told,  all  women  are  liable  to  experience  at  times, 
when  they  dare  to  supplement  the  ancient  maxim  of 
"Know  thyself"  with  its  correlative  of  the  verb  To  be. 
In  his  mother  James  had  a  sturdy  champion;  and  it  must 
be  confessed  that  he  had  given  the  poor  lady  ample  and 
frequent  opportunities  to  exercise  her  defensive  abilities 
on  his  behalf. 

Truth  to  tell,  James  Burkett  was  rather  crude,  not  to 
say  vulgar,  in  his  tastes.  He  voted  the  carefully  selected 
commonplaces,  the  refined  amenities,  of  Wimbledonian 
drawing-rooms,  "Rot."  The  picked  fruits  of  respectable 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  95 

greengrocers,  from  whose  gardens  were  always  rigidly  ex- 
cluded any  possibilities  of  fruition  for  a  certain  tree, 
were,  to  him,  stale,  profitless,  insipid. 

The  majority  of  the  eligible  young  men  in  the  set 
of  which  the  Burketts  were  leading  luminaries  were  su- 
perior to  him  in  the  more  gentlemanly  accomplishments, 
but  their  financial  prospects  were,  unfortunately,  in  a 
lesser  ratio. 

James  was  rather  wild,  admittedly,  but  it  was  con- 
fidently predicted  that  he  would  grow  out  of  all  that, 
and  settle  down  soon;  and  the  analyzers  of  his  character, 
including  many  beside  his  own  parents,  watched  assidu- 
ously for  the  first  symptoms  of  the  sedimentary  move- 
ments prophesied. 

And  then — a  local  bazaar  saw  him  pressed  into  ser- 
vice by  his  sister;  and  the  Other  Woman  came  into  his 
life. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  OTHER   WOMAN 

HELEN  DARELL,  with  her  widowed  mother,  occu- 
pied a  small  house  in  the  Glastonbury  Road,  near  the 
common. 

They  were  both  ladies,  but  they  were  in  far  from  af- 
fluent circumstances,  if  not  actually  poor. 

Helen  was  a  tall  girl  of  a  striking  physical  beauty. 
Her  hair  was  of  a  shining  black:  her  eyes  were  large, 
and,  full  of  darkness,  showed  but  little  white  round  the 
irises.  Their  usual  expression  was  one  calm  enough  to 
veil  an  intensity  of  temperament  from  a  world  that  of- 
fered her  the  ordinary  interests  for  girls  in  her  own  walk 
of  life.  In  a  subdued  light  her  face  conveyed  something 
of  the  impression  of  mystery  produced  by  a  calm  starless 
night :  one  saw  its  calm  and  felt  its  darkness  by  some  sub- 
tle transposition  of  sense. 

She  was  twenty-three,  and  "clever,"  being  greatly 
superior,  intellectually,  to  the  average  man  or  woman. 
She  had  as  yet  scarcely  recognized  this  quality  of  her 
mind — being  a  girl  remarkably  free  from  excessive  van- 
ity, and  more  given  to  assessing  intellectual  values  from 
a  high  standard  than  from  an  ordinary  one.  She  was 
an  example  of  a  relatively  late  development — to  which, 
perhaps,  the  fact  that  her  nature  had  never  as  yet  been 
stirred  to  its  depths  had  been  largely  conducive. 

Since  her  father's  death,  which  had  occurred  six  years 
before,  Helen — an  only  child — and  her  mother,  had  lived, 
for  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  on  the  Continent  There 
Helen  completed  her  schooling,  became  proficient  in 
French  and  German,  and  the  two  women  lived  quietly 
96 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  97 

and  economically;  while  Mrs.  Darell  slowly  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  her  husband's  sudden  death.  At  last 
a  longing  to  return  to  England — even  when  England 
meant  a  small  house  in  the  suburbs  or  the  country — had 
been  too  much  for  them,  and  they  had  taken  "Cloudes- 
hill"  on  a  three  years'  agreement,  and  settled  down  to 
life  in  Wimbledon. 

Before  the  great  achievement  in  the  intellectual  life 
of  the  world,  her  own  capacity  had  seemed  to  Helen 
Darell  a  small  affair.  She  had  never  met  the  man  who 
would  have  insisted  upon  her  possibilities  and,  at  the 
same  time,  have  understood  them.  Such  men  as  she  had 
known,  in  the  restricted  society  her  mother's  limited 
means  had  imposed,  who  had  been  smitten  with  her  ob- 
vious charm,  had  been  men  lacking  in  ideas,  who  had 
failed  to  arouse  passion  in  her.  She  saw  them,  with- 
out emotion,  as  clearly  as  she  saw  their  limitations.  None 
had  confused  her  analytical  faculties,  and  she  had  been 
left,  right  through  the  idealizing  period  that  heralds 
womanhood,  with  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  for  spirit- 
ually intimate,  but  otherwise  impossible,  companions. 
An  abundant  physical  energy,  and  the  fact  that  her  father 
had  lived  chiefly  for  sport,  had  also,  in  a  great  measure, 
influenced  her  life.  She  loved  a  horse  as  she  loved  Shakes- 
peare and  Homer:  the  former  was  in  her  blood  by  a 
direct,  the  latter  by  a  more  uncertain  heredity.  She 
could  not  read  the  great  Greek  mind  in  the  original,  it 
is  true;  but  what  had  sufficed  to  inspire  Keats'  greatest 
sonnet  had  sufficed  for  her ;  humbly  thankful,  as  for  few 
other  things,  as  she  was  for  Chapman's  efforts.  Such 
girls  are  likely  to  find  trouble  in  a  womanhood  that  re- 
quires more  from  its  mate  than  men  sporting  or  commer- 
cial are  likely  to  be  able  to  give. 

Her  mother  looked  to  suburban  London  as  repre- 
senting a  possibly  wealthy  marriage  for  Helen.  She 
was  a  long  way  inferior,  intellectually,  to  her  daughter; 
and  had  a  firm  disbelief  in  the  arts — where  matrimony 
was  the  objective:  her  husband's  death  in  the  field  had 
frightened  her  away  from  hunting  circles.  As  she  told 


98  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

her  friends,  she  had  never  been  the  same  woman 
since. 

There  was  little  of  real  sympathy  between  the  two 
women.  Mrs.  Darell  failed  to  understand,  and  was,  for 
that  reason,  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  afraid  of  Helen. 
Proud  of  the  girl's  beauty,  her  mind  meant  for  her  mother 
dangerous  things.  While,  outwardly,  they  lived  together 
amicably  enough,  inwardly  there  was  generated  between 
the  generations  that  embryo  of  tragedy  easily  quickened 
in  societies  where  Convention  is  exalted  beyond  its  truth ; 
aye,  though  the  bases  of  such  societies  be  large  enough  to 
forgive  the  frantic  lunacies  of  genius  or  broad  enough  to 
measure  the  awful  height  of  stars.  Nevertheless,  I  can 
sympathize  with  Mrs.  Darell,  who  honestly  meant  well, 
according  to  her  lights. 

Had  Helen's  intellectual  powers  developed  earlier  she 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  turned  to  a  profession — 
as  it  was,  she  had  scarcely  ever  considered  any  other 
save  that  of  matrimony.  It  was  not  that  she  was  in- 
dolent, but  that  her  whole  nature  was  still  largely  in 
a  state  of  abeyance ;  and  she  had  tacitly  accepted  the  con- 
vention of  her  mother  and  her  class  as  regards  a  finan- 
cially advantageous  marriage.  Of  late  the  necessity  for 
such  had  been  unpleasantly  emphasized  with  tradesmen's 
bills. 

Her  beauty  was  of  a  type  that  arouses  antagonism 
in  feminine  human  nature  by  excitements  wherein  is 
involved  woman's  recognition  of  a  potential  menace  to 
her  own  position  in  the  hearts  of  her  men  folk.  What- 
ever may  be  said  of  woman's  irrationality  in  her  relations 
with  man,  her  instincts  are  seldom  at  fault  in  dealing  with 
her  own  sex  in  such  matters;  and  her  inherent  maternity 
— which  makes  her,  in  one  sense,  view  all  men  as  her  chil- 
dren— recognizes  for  such  offspring,  in  the  woman  of 
commanding  beauty,  a  probable  snare  and  a  pitfall  by 
which  the  male  child  is  taken  captive  to  his  own  undoing. 

When,  therefore,  Miss  Phoebe  Price,  assisted  by  her 
sister,  had  got  the  much  desired  James  away  from  the 
fair  vendors  of  pincushions,  photo  frames,  table  centers, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  99 

etc.,  who  were  surrounding  him,  and  she  saw  Helen 
Darell  arrive  at  the  next  stall  to  her  own,  and  the  lady 
who  had  been  superintending  thereat  depart  after  a  few 
words  with  the  newcomer,  Miss  Price  was  conscious  of 
a  very  grave  danger.  As  she  watched  Helen  remove  her 
furs  the  enemy's  beauty  leapt  to  Miss  Price's  eyes  like 
a  threatening  thing;  and  she  promptly  detested  her,  who- 
ever she  was,  with  a  hatred  qualified  only  by  the  afore- 
mentioned sense  of  maternal  solicitude  and  fear. 

"I'm  sure  James  will  like  this  one,  Sybil!"  she  said 
to  his  sister,  as  she  held  out  a  silver  cigarette  case  to  her 
customer;  who  was  hesitating,  bewildered  in  the  choice 
of  a  purchase  by  the  numbers  of  useful  and  useless  articles 
spread  before  him.  He  appeared,  as  in  truth  he  was, 
indifferent  to  bazaars  and  all  their  works,  but  he  had  no 
doubt  that  the  thing  was  got  up  in  a  good  cause,  and 
spent  his  money  virtuously. 

His  eyes  wandered  to  the  next  stall,  where  Helen 
stood  watching  him  with  her  own  dark  ones,  that  light- 
ened with  something  like  a  sympathetic  smile  as  she 
calmly  returned  his  stare.  The  splendid  lines  of  her 
figure,  set  off  to  perfection  by  her  close-fitting  costume, 
her  shapely  head  with  its  wreath  of  shining  black  hair 
above  her  clear,  pale  face,  her  beautiful  hands,  made 
up  a  picture  that  most  men  would  look  twice  at,  and 
James  Burkett  looked  twice ;  and  then  let  Miss  Price  sell 
him  the  cigarette  case — the  third  that  afternoon — and 
looked  again. 

She  was,  by  now,  arranging  a  pair  of  worked  slip- 
pers, on  which  glowed  roses  red  and  roses  white.  He 
watched  her  hands,  and,  somehow,  they  contrived  to  give 
him  the  impression  that  they  were  strewing  the  flowers 
about  imaginary  feet;  and  he  felt  a  strangely  romantic 
desire  to  fill  the  slippers  with  his  own.  Miss  Price  was 
forgotten,  and  that  unfortunate  young  woman  turned 
away  to  hide  her  mortification  and  despair,  feeling  that 
she  could  gladly,  in  the  interests  of  morality,  have 
chopped  off  the  offending  hands  with  an  axe. 

Helen  knew  who  he  was  by  sight — her  mother  hav- 


ioo  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

ing,  some  time  before,  pointed  him  out  as  one  of  the 
most  sought  after  among  the  marriageable  young  men  of 
his  class.  He  was  certainly  a  fine  figure  of  young  and 
healthy  manhood.  Her  woman's  intuition  had  divined 
the  state  of  the  other  girl's  feelings  toward  her,  and 
the  righteous  indignation  so  often  mistaken  for  vindic- 
tiveness  which  breathed  in  Miss  Price's  whole  attitude 
aroused  Helen  from  her  usual  indifference:  she  was  not 
without  her  own  share  of  habitual  sex. 

When  she  found  him  by  her  side,  scanning  the  slip- 
pers she  had  been  handling,  her  gratification  was  consid- 
erably greater  than  her  surprise.  He  picked  them  up, 
and  stood  looking  at  them  vaguely. 

She  smiled  slightly — they  would  be  too  small  for 
him,  she  thought,  she  said  aloud.  James  had  a  large 
size  in  feet,  and  she  could  not  resist  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  whether  his  vanity  was  to  be  wounded  in  that  di- 
rection. It  was  not:  but  he  replaced  them  doubtfully, 
and  picked  up  some  others  entirely  lacking  in  romantic 
suggestion.  Her  hands  wandered  to  the  discarded  pair 
again. 

He  didn't  know? — he  thought  the  other  pair  were 
large  enough.  They  stretched  out  a  bit,  he  thought? 

Her  hands  did,  again  with  a  faint  motion  over  the 
roses,  and  held  them  out  to  him. 

He  took  them  from  her,  and  said  he  would  chance  it; 
and  she  placed  them  on  one  side,  and  held  out  a  silver 
cigarette  case  with  a  tentative  gesture,  gently  brushing 
it  open. 

He  took  it  almost  eagerly,  and  she  turned  and  glanced 
serenely  at  the  wretched  Miss  Price — receiving  in  ex- 
change a  look  of  primeval  significance  from  that  young 
lady. 

He  lingered  still;  and  again  the  beautiful  hands  re- 
sumed their  deadly  work;  this  time  moving  lovingly 
among  an  array  of  dark  red  roses — "buttonholes."  He 
had  already  a  yellow  rose  in  his  coat;  she  held  out  a  red 
one.  He  placed  it  beside  the  other,  and,  after  a  show 
of  criticism,  discarded  the  yellow — hoping  her  hands 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  101 

would  fasten  the  usurper.  They  did — with  just  a  sus- 
picion of  hesitation.  She  was  a  tall  girl,  and  her  eyes 
were  close  to  his.  He  would  have  liked  them  to  have 
been  warmer  and,  with  a  woman's  preternatural  cun- 
ning, she  knew  it.  For  a  fraction  of  a  second  they  be- 
came so;  then  she  was  busy  with  his  coat  again. 

As  he  raised  his  hat  he  was  wondering  if  it  had  been 
imagination  or  merely  a  reflection  of  something  he  felt 
in  his  own  eyes. 

He  was  gone  at  last:  and  she  swept  the  yellow  rose, 
as  if  unaware  of  it,  behind  the  stall.  Afterward  she  stood 
upon  it,  crushing  it  with  her  heel,  calmly  and  methodi- 
cally. She  was  really  laboring  under  a  suppressed  ex- 
citement which  made  an  act  of  vandalism  a  curious  re- 
lief. There  had  been  a  bit  of  a  scene  between  her  and 
her  mother  that  morning  over  some  wretched  bills.  Be- 
hind the  dark  eyes  her  mind  was  busy — at  first  in  intro- 
spection— analyzing  certain  feelings  to  which  she  had 
previously  been  a  stranger.  She  was  not  a  coquette,  and 
the  sense  of  power  over  other  human  beings,  male  and 
female,  had  suddenly  become  more  interesting  than  here- 
tofore. Then  her  thoughts  reverted  to  her  late  cus- 
tomer. She  might  do  worse !  He  was  largely  an  ani- 
mal, but  most  men  were  that.  She  had  no  grievance 
against  Mother  Nature  for  not  selecting  the  vegetable 
kingdom  for  humanity.  That  her  own  beautiful  body 
could  captivate  him  was  in  itself  a  thing  that  appealed 
more  to  her  intellect — as  a  curious  phenomenon  of  hu- 
man emotions — than  to  her  vanity.  He  was,  at  least,  a 
fine  animal,  and  much  desired  by  other  women.  When 
she  realized  that  the  latter  circumstance  had  a  greater 
influence  with  her  than  could  have  been  the  case  for- 
merly, she  interpreted  the  sign  aright  as  the  forerunner 
of  that  spirit  of  mischief,  latent  in  every  woman,  whose 
raison  d'etre  is  somewhere  in  her  own  sex.  She  rather 
welcomed  it  than  otherwise,  and  smiled  slightly  at 
her  own  thoughts,  apparently  unconscious  of  an  angry 
woman  at  the  next  stall.  She  had  picked  up  the  offend- 
ing slippers  meditatively  (he  had  left  instructions  for 


102  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

them  to  be  sent  on  with  other  purchases  of  his  people's), 
and,  casually  raising  her  eyes  to  those  of  the  other  girl — 
whom  a  whirlwind  of  hate  had  stripped  of  her  gen- 
tility— her  black  eyes  flickered  a  challenge  to  the  blue 
ones  of  Miss  Price.  As  she  grew  wanton,  so  the 
more  she  felt  for  her  harassed  mother;  and  mocked 
her  own  hypocrisy  from  the  creed  of  daughters  duti- 
ful. 

"Mr.  Burkett  is  greatly  interested  in  bazaar  work,  is 
he  not?"  she  said. 

Mr.  Burkett's  sister — whose  services  had  in  the  mean- 
time been  requisitioned  by  an  admirer  in  another  part 
of  the  building — returned  in  time  to  prevent  what  might 
have  been  a  most  unladylike  exhibition  on  the  part  of  the 
young  lady  addressed. 

The  cause  of  contention  left  the  schoolroom  in  which 
the  bazaar  was  held;  and  went  home  wondering  who  she 
was.  He  did  not  know  her  name,  nor  did  he  remember 
having  seen  her  before.  He  couldn't  have  seen  her  be- 
fore— he  would  have  remembered  her  otherwise  for  a 
certainty. 

Afterward  he  inquired  of  his  sister  who  she  was. 

"The  girl  with  the  white  face  and  horrid  eyes? — who 
had  a  stall  beside  Phoebe's?  Helen  Darell!  Phoebe 
told  me  she  was  making  eyes  at  you  in  the  most  shame- 
less way.  I  wonder  how  men  can  be  so  blind  as  not  to 
see  through  a  girl  like  that.  Any  woman  would." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Well,  if  you  admire  her  eyes,  she's  up  to  them  in 
debt — or  her  mother  is!" 

Inwardly  he  cursed  Phoebe  for  a  spiteful  little  cat. 

Miss  Price  had  sealed  her  own  fate,  as  Helen  knew 
she  would — the  prescience  of  women  in  these  matters 
being  a  dreadful  thing. 

James  decided  that  he  wanted  to  marry  Helen  Darell. 
The  opposition  that  he  would  meet  with  was  fore- 
shadowed by  his  sister's  description  of,  and  attitude 
toward,  that  young  lady.  He  did  not  mention  her  again 
at  "Downlands,"  but  watched  for  an  opportunity  to  re- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  103 

new  his  acquaintance  with  the  horrid-eyed  one:  in  which 
laudable  endeavor,  of  which  she  was  perfectly  well  aware, 
Helen,  after  a  night  of  unusual  tribulation  and  unrest, 
determined  that  it  would  not  be  her  fault  if  he  failed  to 
succeed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

JAMES  BURKETT  FALLS  IN  LOVE  AGAIN 

IT  was  not  very  long  before  opportune  circumstance 
facilitated  matters.  On  his  return  from  Sandown  Park 
one  evening,  a  few  days  after  the  bazaar,  walking  up  the 
hill  from  the  station,  he  overtook  the  dark  divinity  of  his 
latter  nights  and  days. 

"How  d'you  do,  Miss  Darell!" 

"Oh — good  evening,  Mr.  Burkett!" 

She  walked  faster,  impelled  thereto  by  his  own  stride. 
Duty  in  a  daughter.  Duty  in  a  wife.  The  sooner  she 
trained  herself  in  the  discipline  of  ready  obedience  the 
better. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  results  of  your  bazaar? — 
satisfactory?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  hope  you  found  at  least  some  of  your 
purchases  equally  so?"  She  turned  to  him,  smiling. 

"Ah!  The  slippers!  Yes,  rather!  Just  the  thing. 
Not  too  small — a  bit!  I  wear  'em  every  night!" 

Proximity  to  her  worked  in  him  riotously.  He  could 
not  think  of  her  calmly.  She  was  too  deep  for  him.  For 
him  the  only  way  with  such  women  was  to  carry  them  off 
their  feet,  somehow. 

She  noticed  the  race-glasses  he  was  swinging. 

"I  love  racing!  I  hope  you  had  a  good  day.  San- 
down,  wasn't  it?" 

"You  do?  I  didn't  know  you  were  fond  of  it,  Miss 
Darell."  The  fates  were  extraordinarily  propitious :  his 
luck  was  in.  He  went  on,  "Yes.  Backed  a  few  winners." 

"Bravo!  Oh,  rather!  My  father  was  very  keen  on 
it."  Then  she  broke  out,  "To  see  a  good  horse,  giving 
104 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  105 

weight  away  all  round,  squander  his  field,  or,  better  still ! 
two  good  ones  fight  it  out  from  below  the  distance,  I 
would — sell  my  soul  1"  Her  voice  rose  laughing  on  the 
note  of  exaggeration. 

Her  enthusiasm  infected  him  with  a  more  than  glad- 
ness. 

Most  women,  when  they  have  said  a  bitter  thing, 
like  to  listen  inwardly  a  moment  after  having  said  it. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  they  speak  other  than  secret  bitterness, 
at  times,  to  provide  a  thrill  for  that  exacting  audience  of 
their  own  soul. 

"Really?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  Then  she  added  as  an  afterthought: 
"We  have  quite  a  collection  of  old  prints  of  his  at  home 
— some  of  them  quite  good,  I  believe." 

James  became  very  interested  in  the  late  Mr.  Darell's 
collection  of  sporting  subjects,  and  said  so. 

"You  must  pay  us  the  compliment  of  an  inspection 
some  day." 

"I  should  like  to,"  he  replied.  "I've  succeeded  in 
getting  together  a  moderate  assortment  myself.  Women 
don't  take  much  interest  in  that  sort  of  thing  as  a  rule." 

"I'm  afraid  I  am  perhaps  lacking  in  the  more  femi- 
nine accomplishments !" 

"Why?" 

She  laughed.  "Oh — well,  somehow  the  average 
range  of  a  woman's  interests  and  outlook  on  life  doesn't 
greatly  appeal  to  me.  Convention  can  be  carried  too  far, 
don't  you  think,  Mr.  Burkett?  I  should  scarcely  like  to 
obliterate  my  own  individuality  at  the  dictates  of  a  code, 
shall  we  say?"  Her  inward  ear  was  listening  now  with  a 
vengeance. 

She  knew  him  by  report  and  intuition  sufficiently  well 
to  know  that  the  most  assertive  phase  of  his  individuality 
would  agree  with  her  remark.  For  a  little  pitiful  mo- 
ment shame  in  her  flickered  up  and  went  out,  while  she 
was  finding  excuses  in  healthy  animalism.  There  was 
neither  passion  nor  desire  in  her  for  this  man. 

"I   should   say   not!    Miss    Darell.      Rather   not!" 


io6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Then,  he  added:  "I  say,  I  should  like  to  call.     May  I?" 

Her  mother's  face  fretted  over  papers  and  figures. 
With  the  recent  failure  of  a  brewery  company  Mrs. 
Darell's  income  had  fallen  by  something  like  a  third. 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "Yes,  if  you  would  really 
care  to.  We  live  at  'Cloudeshill,'  in  Glastonbury  Road." 

"Thanks,  I  will!    To  tea?    One  day  next  week." 

"Tuesday,  then." 

"Right  OP 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  corner  of  the  Glastonbury 
Road;  and  they  stood  talking  for  a  few  minutes  longer  on 
indifferent  matters.  It  was  with  evident  reluctance  that 
he  said  good-bye. 

Helen  was  a  smashing  fine  girl,  by  Gad!  Quality 
and  breeding  in  every  inch  of  her!  None  of  the  usual 
bread-and-butter  miss  about  her!  Damn  it! — he  would 
go  in  and  win  her!  Somehow  he  thought  he  could.  As 
he  walked  home  he  drew  a  vivid  picture  of  her  at  the 
head  of  her  field  with  hounds  running  strongly.  She 
had  mentioned  that  they  were  Rutland  people;  and  that 
the  death  of  her  father  had  caused  Mrs.  Darell  to  leave 
the  Shires.  They  had  only  been  living  in  Wimbledon  for 
about  six  months. 

Arrived  at  his  own  home  he  let  himself  in,  and  spent 
the  rest  of  the  evening  in  his  den  dreaming  about  her — 
with  a  necessary  adjournment  for  dinner.  In  the  inter- 
vals of  examining  certain  memoranda  inscribed  on  his 
race-card,  his  eyes  wandered  thoughtfully  to  his  slippered 
feet  resting  on  the  rail  of  the  fender.  He  had  had  a 
good  day;  and  yet  his  mind  was  not  at  ease.  He  was  in 
love  with  Miss  Darell — Helen  he  called  her — and  she  in- 
spired him  with  a  peculiar  restlessness  unlike  any  he  had 
previously  experienced  toward  women.  They  were  poor, 
he  surmised  from  one  or  two  things  she  had  said,  and 
the  guv'nor  might  cut  up  nasty.  She  was  a  lady,  any- 
how— that  was  something. 

The  warmth  of  the  fire,  after  being  out  in  the  cold 
air  all  the  afternoon,  presently  began  to  have  a  soothing 
effect,  and,  under  the  combined  influences  of  tobacco  and 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  107 

physical  comfort,  James  gave  himself  up  to  ardent  and 
more  pleasantly  hopeful  reveries.  I  know  of  no  more 
glorious  dreams  for  one  of  his  years,  if  the  world  be 
made  aright,  as  who  can  doubt  that  it  is,  under  their 
influence.  Sexlessness  may  have  its  moments  of  high  ex- 
altation, may  even  forget  a  sadness  in  the  blood,  its  usual 
concomitant.  Perhaps  the  world  is  made  awrong.  If  so, 
James  Burkett  would  never  have  guessed  it  by  asexual 
methods. 

The  following  Tuesday  he  left  the  city  early,  and 
reached  "Cloudeshill"  about  four  o'clock.  Mrs.  Darell 
received  him  cordially,  without  any  undue  effusiveness. 
Physically,  she  had  been  a  smaller  and  plainer  edition  of 
Helen  in  her  youth;  and,  without  any  pronounced  desire 
to  again  enter  the  marriage-state,  was  chiefly  ambitious 
regarding  her  daughter's  future.  She  knew  the  Burketts 
were  wealthy,  and  if — as  the  daughter  of  a  brewer — she 
felt  herself  superior  to  "tradespeople,"  she  had  a  catho- 
lic belief  in  the  refining  influence  of  Money.  James  was 
an  only  son — a  match  between  him  and  her  girl  would 
not  be  undesirable. 

"My  daughter  is  not  in  the  habit  of  springing 
strangers  upon  me,  Mr.  Burkett — we  are  very  quiet  peo- 
ple— I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  entertain  you!  Helen 
mentioned  that  you  were  interested  in  the  old  prints.  She 
is  upstairs  looking  out  several  my  husband  collected  in 
his  lifetime,  poor  man!"  Here  Mrs.  Darell  paused  and 
became  lost  in  the  past  for  a  moment. 

The  late  Mr.  Darell,  one  day  when  out  with  the  Cot- 
tesmore,  had  crossed  the  boundaries  into  the  Quorn  coun- 
try and  into  what  men  call  Eternity  at  the  same  time — his 
horse  falling  on  him  at  an  oxer.  It  did  not  break  his 
wife's  heart,  but  it  broke  her  nerve  to  a  very  great  ex- 
tent. 

James  suitably  expressed  his  sympathy  with  her  at 
the  untimely  end  of  the  unfortunate  huntsman. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  great  shock  to  me,  Mr.  Burkett!"  Her 
eyes  wandered  to  a  picture  of  a  tall  man  on  a  bright  bay 
hunter.  "I  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  a  horse  for  a  long 


io8  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

time  afterward;  and  Helen,  who  is  my  only  child,  gave 
up  her  greatest  pleasure  for  my  sake.  She  was  such  a 
fearless  girl  herself  that  I  should  have  been  in  an  agony 
every  time  she  was  out !  She  had  had  one  or  two  spills 
before  Mr.  Darell's  dreadful  accident.  We  went  abroad 
for  years,  and  then  we  decided  upon  this  place.  It  is 
quiet  and  healthy,  I  believe?" 

James  believed  that  the  health-giving  properties  of 
Wimbledon  were  quite  remarkable,  and  accompanied  his 
hostess  to  the  picture. 

"Carfax — the  horse  that  killed  him,"  she  said,  by 
way  of  explanation.  "I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  waive  my 
objections  to  her  riding  any  more.  The  temptations  for 
a  gallop  across  the  common  are,  I  know,  great  ones  for 
her,  though  she  has  never  said  so."  Mrs.  Darell  sighed 
again. 

"In  that  case  I  shall  be  delighted  if  you  will  let  me 
find  a  mount  for  her,  Mrs.  Darell.  I  think  you  may  rely 
upon  my  judgment,"  said  James.  Oh,  to  be  beside  her  in 
the  open,  with  the  wind  all  about  them  both ! 

"It  is  awfully  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Burkett!  I  am  so 
afraid  that  if  left  to  herself  she  will  take  risks.  The  last 
horse  she  rode  had  been  turned  out  of  training,  and  was 
really  not  fit  for  a  girl !  I  know  she  had  one  or  two  very 
narrow  escapes." 

Here  the  subject  of  their  remarks  entered  the  room 
with  a  large  parcel  of  prints. 

"There! — Mr.  Burkett"  (the  usual  salutations  over), 
"I  think  you  will  find  several  among  these  that  will  in- 
terest you,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Mr.  Burkett  has  just  been  kind  enough  to  ask  me 
to  let  him  find  a  horse  for  you  some  day,  dear. 
I  was  telling  him  about  your  temptations  in  that  di- 
rection, and  that,  though  you  had  never  expressed 
your  longings  openly,  I  feared  the  sight  of  the  gallops 
on  the  common  must  prove  too  strong  for  you  sooner  or 
later!" 

Helen  laughed,  and,  after  thanking  James,  she  said: 
"Well,  mother,  I  will  not  deny  that  I  have  been  tempted, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  109 

but" — turning  to  him — "I  am  strong,"  she  added.  "Re- 
tro me,  Sat  anas!" 

James  took  it  as  a  compliment:  though  he  protested 
against  any  analogy  between  himself  and  the  Prince  of 
Darkness ;  and  the  two  went  through  the  pictures  together 
— close  together;  Mrs.  Darell,  from  her  chair  by  the 
fire,  interpolating  a  variety  of  remarks  respecting  the  col- 
lection. 

Helen  was  looking  perfect,  he  thought,  as  her  dark 
head  bent  in  examination  of  dates  and  signatures  from 
time  to  time.  As  she  stood  up  near  to  the  light,  to  de- 
cipher something  on  a  print  representing  Fisherman  win- 
ning one  of  his  innumerable  races,  his  eyes  clearly  showed 
his  admiration,  and  her  own,  raised  for  a  moment,  seemed 
to  him  to  glow  with  a  dusky  purple  splendor  as  the  light 
fell  into  their  black  depths. 

Mrs.  Darell  saw  the  impression  her  daughter  had 
made.  "I  hope  you  will  not  think  Helen  unwomanly  or 
mannish,  Mr.  Burkett.  Her  father  spoilt  her  somewhat, 
I'm  afraid!  Her  only  doll  that  I  can  remember  was  her 
Sheltie." 

Mr.  Burkett,  who  had  just  been  thinking  her  the  per- 
fection of  womanhood,  awoke  from  his  dreams.  "Good 
Lord,  no! — Mrs.  Darell,"  he  said,  laughing. 

Tea  arrived;  and  the  beautiful  hands,  that  had  al- 
ready cast  a  snare  about  his  feet,  rapidly  began  to  ex- 
tend their  sphere  of  operations  about  the  rest  of  James 
Burkett,  until  that  young  man  was  reduced  to  a  state  of 
eager  captivity.  As  a  hostess  she  would  be  as  perfect  as 
she  would  be  as  Diana!  This  was  the  woman  for 
him! 

Mrs.  DarelL  had  left  the  room,  and  the  two  were 
alone  together.  The  mysterious  Unseen — those  influ- 
ences that  chafe  under  the  restraint  of  a  third  human  pres- 
ence— leapt  into  freedom  about  them. 

"What  a  jolly  little  room!"  said  James,  casting  ap- 
preciative glances  about  him  as  he  spoke — from  the  thick 
Persian  rug  at  his  feet,  to  where  a  couple  of  masks 


i  io  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

grinned  beside  a  picture  of  Pocahontas,  hanging  above 
a  cabinet  containing  some  old  Worcester. 

"The  place  is  small,  but  quite  large  enough  for  us," 
she  replied.  "We  know  so  few  people  in  Wimbledon: 
I  hope  you  will  take  pity  on  two  lonely  women,  some- 
times!" ' 

James  discovered  a  hitherto  unsuspected  capacity  for 
that  quality  inherent  in  his  breast.  "Whenever  you  will 
have  me,  Miss  Darell."  Then,  he  added:  "We  have  at 
least  one  taste  in  common.  If  you  would  like  an  after- 
noon's racing  occasionally,  perhaps  Mrs.  Darell  would 
let  me  take  you — even  if  she  wouldn't  care  to  come  her- 
self?" 

"Mother  hardly  ever  goes  out  in  the  winter — her 
chest  is  weak — but  /  should  like  it  immensely.  It's  aw- 
fully kind  of  you." 

James  forgot  to  express  his  regret  for  the  weak  spot 
in  Mrs.  Darell's  health.  "Don't  mention  it!  I'd  like  to 
take  you !"  he  answered,  with  a  spontaneity  pregnant  with 
symptoms  of  another  disorder. 

The  beautiful  hands  discovered  an  objectionable  in- 
clination to  despondency  in  the  fire,  and  reached  down 
for  the  tongs.  He  hastened  to  assist  her;  under  his  en- 
ergetic treatment  the  flames  leapt  into  being,  and  the 
firelight  flickered  snake-like  among  the  coils  of  her  dark 
hair,  as  she  sat  bending  forward  in  her  low  chair,  looking 
into  the  blaze. 

"A  penny  for  them !"  he  said  playfully. 

"Eh?"  She  looked  up  at  him,  and  answered  with  a 
little  shrug. 

"Aren't  you  happy?" 

"Why?"     Don't  I  look  happy?" 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  seen. 
Forgive  me  saying  it.  It's  real  admiration,  not  a  mere 
compliment!" 

She  flushed  very  slightly.  "Am  I?"  Her  eyes  went 
back  to  the  leaping  flames  and  watched  them  thought- 
fully. Before  he  could  amplify  his  last  sentence  she  re- 
sumed: "Do  you  know,  it's  strange  to  me,  since  men 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  in 

profess  to  admire  beauty  so  much,  how  ugly  they  have 
managed  to  make  so  much  of  life" 

"You  mean — er — business,  making  money,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing?  Yes."  He  was  feeling  on  rather  un- 
certain ground. 

"Oh,  for  more  of  the  joy  of  beauty  in  the  world!" 
She  sat  up  suddenly:  her  eyes  grown  more  wonderful 
than  ever,  and  full  of  a  vivid,  swift  tenderness  and  long- 
ing. 

It  was  only  a  fancy,  he  supposed,  but  there  was  a 
hint  in  them  of  something  similar  to  something  he  had 
once  seen  in  those  of  Margaret  Yeomans.  Whatever  it 
was,  it  affected  him  to  silence;  while  he  began  to  envy 
artist- Johnnies,  poets,  fiddlers,  all  the  rest  of  that  half- 
baked,  effeminate  crowd,  as  he  considered  them. 

"More  of  what  Turner  saw  in  the  world,  O  God, 
we  beseech  Thee !"  She  was  smiling  at  herself  through 
her  smile  at  him.  She  must  have  bitten  her  tongue, 
had  she  said,  "Titian"  to  this  man.  "You  like 
Turner?" 

"I  could  love  him  if  you  do!" 

"Could  you?"  The  fire  held  her  again.  "At  least 
we  have  glorious  sunsets  on  the  common,  at  times,  in 
Wimbledon.  I  saw  one,  last  November,  from  a  hollow 
over  there  in  the  woods  near  Caesar's  Well  that  might 
have  made  even  me  into  an  artist.  I  wish  I  could  paint." 
She  sighed. 

"I  should  have  thought  you  could  do  anything!" 

"No.    I  tried  ...  but  it  was  not  Art" 

He  was  glad.  He  thought  art  was  all  right,  but 
rather  rot.  He  did  not  tell  her  so,  naturally.  Also,  he 
was  glad  she  did  not  seek  to  sound  him  on  the  matter. 
He  liked  a  good  concert.  He  went  to  the  Academy,  in 
the  season,  with  his  sister;  and  looked  at  the  other  women 
chiefly.  Of  poetry  he  had  dismal  recollections,  and  a 
healthy  horror  of  hexameters  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But 
he  was  still  young,  he  remembered,  with  satisfaction  and 
a  new  belief  in  his  aesthetic  possibilities. 

She  had  lapsed  into  her  dreams  again. 


ii2  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

There  was  something  about  her  quite  different  from 
the  other  girls  of  his  acquaintance,  thought  James. 

The  return  of  Mrs.  Darell  put  an  end  to  more 
personal  topics,  and  the  conversation  became  gen- 
eral. 

As  he  said  good-bye  he  promised  to  call  the  follow- 
ing week — in  answer  to  a  suggestion  to  that  effect  on 
the  part  of  his  hostess.  "It  is  rather  dull  for  Helen,  I'm 
afraid,  sometimes,"  said  Mrs.  Darell. 

It  would  not  be  his  fault  if  that  young  lady  suffered 
from  the  tedium  of  existence  whenever  he  could  relieve 
it,  James  Burkett  told  himself  as  he  went  home. 

"I  like  him,"  said  Mrs.  Darell,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause:  "He  is  not  clever,  but  I  should  say  he  has 
good  points." 

"He  is  mostly  animal,  of  course,"  said  Helen  reflec- 
tively. 

"My  dear  child,  all  men  are  like  that,  more  or  less ! 
At  least  he  is  a  healthy  one !  Your  beauty  has  evidently 
made  a  decided  impression  upon  him." 

"My  beauty!  Yes!"  The  usually  level  tones  of  her 
voice  vibrated  slightly.  "He  looks  upon  me  as  a  de- 
sirable acquisition — a  suitable  figure-head  for  the  time 
when  he  will  want  a  household  of  his  own!" 

"Well,  Helen,  I  am  sure  there  is  no  need  to  complain 
because  you  are  beautiful !  You  are  beautiful,  my  dear — 
very!  I  watched  you  as  you  were  standing  under  the 
light.  He  was  watching  you  too,  and  there  was  admira- 
tion in  every  line  of  his  face!" 

"If  I  had  been  standing  naked  in  a  slave  market  there 
would  have  been  more,  and,  no  doubt,  he  would  have  bid 
for  me  with  spirit  against  the  other  males,"  she  said,  her 
voice  calm  and  dispassionate  again. 

"Really,  Helen,  I  think  you  are  a  little  illogical  and 
unreasonable,"  said  her  mother  plaintively. 

"My  dear  mother,  all  women  are  like  that,  more  or 
less!"  ' 

Mrs.  Darell  smiled — the  retort  was  a  fair  one. 
"Well,  dear,  I  am  only  anxious  for  your  future  happi- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  113 

ness,  as  you  know.  And,  since  he  died,  our  circumstances 
have  been  getting  worse  and  worse." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  suppose  you  are.  I  will  marry  him 
— if  he  asks  me,"  she  said  suddenly.  She  spoke  without 
enthusiasm.  "His  people  will  probably  object  to  it." 

"The  man  is  a  bit  of  a  snob,  of  the  usual  wealthy 
tradesman  type,  apparently,  from  what  I  have  heard. 
His  wife  seems  to  be  rather  an  innocuous  sort  of  per- 
son, from  all  I  have  been  able  to  glean  about  her.  Her 
bonnets  are  rather  awful — I  walked  behind  her  the  other 
day, — down  the  hill." 

Helen  laughed.  "Dear  old  mater! — already  carry- 
ing war  into  the  camp  of  the  Philistines !" 

Mrs.  Darell  smiled  deprecatingly.  "Well,  Helen, 
I'm  sure  I  thought  you  looked  upon  him  as  a  possible 
husband!" 

"Did  I,  mother?     Yes,  I  believe  I  did — and  do." 

Her  mother  left  her,  and  Helen  sat  on,  gazing  into 
the  fire — dreaming  the  dreams  that  so  many  of  her  sex 
have  dreamed,  in  all  probability,  since  the  heterogeneous 
units  of  mankind  evolved  the  common  idea  of  a  certain 
amount  of  individual  freedom  for  their  women,  and  that 
sex's  right  to  be  considered  apart,  and  distinct,  from  the 
older  conceptions  of  Property  itself. 

Did  she  love  James  Burkett?  She  did  not.  She  would 
sell  herself  to  him — sell  her  beautiful  body  and  her  soul 
to  him  in  return  for  a  house  and  servants,  and  all  the  ma- 
terial things  she  undoubtedly  desired.  She  was  too  wise 
to  be  under  any  delusion  as  to  the  true  nature  of  what 
she  was  preparing  to  achieve. 

She  had  had  many  lovers — mostly  among  hunting 
men,  though  an  artist  in  Paris  and  a  composer  in  Vienna 
had  flung  themselves  at  her  feet.  The  artist  had  noth- 
ing but  his  art;  and  the  musical  gentleman  had  a  mistress 
of  Hungarian  extraction  and  poignard  proclivities,  who, 
upon  discovering  his  worship  of  the  English  Miss,  had 
frightened  away  the  faithless  Herr  with  the  poignard,  and 
enlightened  Miss  herself  with  proofs  of  his  many  amours 
and  dreadful  drinking  habits. 


ii4  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

She  had  had  several  honorable  proposals,  and  one 
or  two  of  the  other  kind.  From  one  cause  or  another  the 
former  had  been  unsatisfactory.  The  latter  were  from 
married  men,  and  included  a  certain  noble  lord:  she 
laughed  at  them  with  as  much  good-natured  indifference 
as  contempt.  She  had  an  idea  that  very  few  husbands 
were  faithful — but  that  it  was  the  nature  of  the  beast; 
and,  instead  of  feeling  a  spite  against  Nature,  she  was 
wise  enough  to  realize  the  futility  of  ignoring  the  stu- 
pendous forces  which  that  old  lady  was  in  the  habit  of 
letting  loose  in  all  directions,  with  an  utter  indifference 
to  mortal  susceptibilities — forces  which  were,  after  all, 
woman's  chief  weapon  as  they  were  her  worst  enemy. 
In  her  philosophy,  sex,  once  established,  had  better  rea- 
sons for  itself,  in  existence,  than  in  efforts  to  argue  itself 
out  of  it. 

Taken  all  round,  James  Burkett  was  probably  the 
most  eligible  parti,  from  a  financial  point  of  view,  that 
Fortune  had  so  far  presented  to  her.  She  had  never  de- 
ceived herself  with  the  idea  that  she  had  ever  fallen  in 
love  with  any  of  them.  She  reviewed  the  situation  calmly 
— sitting  there  in  the  xhair  he  had  recently  filled.  Yes, 
he  was  mostly  an  animal,  but  a  young  one — and  they  were 
more  easily  trained  when  caught  young — and  healthy,  and 
apparently  without  much  vice  in  him.  He  would  be 
wealthy,  and,  possibly,  a  faithful  husband  once  his  af- 
fections were  legally  protected  from  the  attacks  of  other 
women. 

She  was  a  "new"  woman  who  would  have  laughed  at 
the  idea  of  the  male  half  of  humanity  being  ruled  by 
feminine  intellect.  Her  own  splendid  body  was  more 
potent  than  a  hundred  intellects.  She  would  have  given 
the  latter  opinion  as  dispassionately  as  she  would  have 
admitted  the  limited  tenure  of  such  power.  Also,  she 
was  wise  enough  to  realize  the  nature  of  the  truth  that 
is  in  the  axiom — "A  plain  face  is  a  great  aid  to  Virtue," 
without  being  unduly  elated  at  the  circumstance  of  her 
own  beauty.  The  possibilities  for  evil  in  her  were  very 
considerable;  the  possibilities  for  good  would  be  largely 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  115 

hampered  by  certain  peculiarities  of  her  temperament, 
and  might  never  be  developed  into  actualities  unless  the 
inducing  factor  was  such  as  would  reconcile  her  whole 
being. 

This,  then,  was  the  woman  whose  existence — un- 
known to  him  a  week  or  two  before — had  now  become  a 
thing  which  entered  largely  into  James  Burkett's  own. 

The  next  Tuesday  found  him  again  at  "Cloudeshill." 
On  the  Saturday  week  following  he  was  chosen  to  play 
in  a  county  match  on  the  ground  at  Wimbledon.  Helen 
was  interested :  fortune  gave  him  another  chance  to  shine 
in  the  realms  of  the  physical. 

Her  mother's  nerves  excused  her  from  accompanying 
her  daughter.  In  the  grandstand,  with  James  for  her 
only  companion  (he  had  "changed"  at  his  house  to 
be  with  her  as  much  as  possible),  the  two  chatted 
together  while  they  awaited  the  appearance  of  the  com- 
batants. 

The  green  of  winter  grass  under  gray  and  silver 
skies :  the  west  wind  that  poured  into  the  ground,  and 
flushed  her  cheeks,  and  filled  her  lungs  full  with  sweet 
strong  life,  and  moved  the  great  elms  about,  and  brushed 
to  quivering  curves  the  broad  black  poplars'  hair: — these 
things  had  their  due  effect  upon  her;  and  when  James,  in 
his  red  and  white  jersey  and  clean  white  knickers,  took 
the  field  for  the  fray,  he  had  more  things  on  his  side 
than  he  had  any  idea  of. 

It  was  a  hard  game:  ten  minutes  from  the  finish 
neither  side  had  scored.  Burkett  had  borne  himself  well 
through  the  struggle.  Inspired  to  great  efforts,  he  was 
repeatedly  prominent;  and  yet  the  one  crowning  triumph 
had  been  denied  him.  She  had  had  her  tender  and  some- 
thing very  like  tumultuous  moments  in  the  grandstand. 

Then,  right  below  her  where  she  sat  in  her  corner, 
from  a  line  out  on  his  opponents'  "twenty-five,"  James, 
a  fast  man  for  a  forward,  jumped  for  the  ball.  Flinging 
off  two  three-quarters  in  quick  succession,  he  staggered 
away  from  the  fullback's  unsuccessful  tackle,  steadied 
himself  with  a  wrench,  and  raced  round  to  score  right 


n6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

behind  the  posts,  even  while  two  pursuers  flung  themselves 
vainly  upon  him. 

There  was  much  enthusiasm  and  applause  from  the 
crowd;  and  Helen  clapped  her,  by  now,  something-very- 
like-a-hero  as  heartily  as  any  there.  She  felt  quite  happy 
in  him  when,  a  minute  after,  he  converted  the  try  him- 
self. There  was  no  further  score. 

James  had  won  the  game  for  his  side.  She  was  quite 
proud  of  him  as  they  walked  back  from  the  ground  to- 
gether; he  with  the  stains  of  conflict  still  upon  him,  she 
with  a  wild  medley  of  striving  winds  and  men  still  work- 
ing in  her  blood. 

A  visit  to  Kempton  Park  followed;  and  the  two  began 
to  reach  those  grounds  of  intimacy  where  the  ordinary 
amenities  of  friendly  acquaintance  may  be  said  to  cross 
the  frontiers  into  warmer  realms. 

During  this  time  he  had  seen  Margaret  frequently. 
As  I  have  said,  it  went  on  for  a  month.  Soon  compari- 
son was  as  inevitable  as  relentless.  A  being  half  Cleo- 
patra, half  Diana  (he  put  the  mortal  half  first)  held 
his  thoughts;  his  arms  held  "a  poor  little  filly."  But 
what  the  devil  was  he  to  do? 

A  week  or  so  later,  as  he  said  good-night  to  Helen 
by  herself  in  the  hall  at  "Cloudeshill"— Mrs.  Darell  hav- 
ing remained  at  the  fire — the  girl  said:  "By  the  way, 
you  cut  me  the  other  night!" 

"O— h?  I'm  sorry,  Helen!  I  didn't  see  you  I"  Her 
name  had  slipped  out,  and  she,  only,  noticed  it.  "Where 
was  it?" 

"Near  the  station.     You  were  talking  to  a — lady." 

Her  hesitation  before  the  last  word  was  significant 
to  him;  as  was  his  pause  before  his  next  remark  to 
her. 

"Oh — er — yes,  I  remember.  A  girl  I  was  acquainted 
with  in  the  country  somewhere,  where  I  stopped  once." 

Her  next  remark  was  an  irrelevant  one. 

He  said  good-night;  and  his  suppressed  ejaculation 
found  an  expletive  outlet.  It  was  Margaret,  of  course. 
He  had  met  the  girl  there,  by  chance,  the  other  evening. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  117 

He  must  be  more  careful  in  the  future.  Women  were 
jealous  as  the  very  devil!  Rotten  luck! 

Wherefore  the  shadow  fell  between  him  and  his  Mar- 
garet, darker  than  the  darkest  of  the  nights  that  had  hid- 
den them  under  the  aegis  of  its  sable  shade — the  shadow 
of  the  Other  Woman. 

It  was  her  own  fault — she  ought  to  have  been 
stronger,  and  gone  away  once  she  had  seen  him  again, 
Margaret  told  herself. 

The  Other  Woman  had  seen  them  standing  talking 
together  one  night  in  the  Hill  road,  and  James  had  ex- 
plained it  away;  which  meant  lies — lies  about  himself 
and  everything;  and  she  felt  his  child  within  her  at  the 
thought. 

His  sudden  disclosure  had  thrown  her  off  her  guard, 
and  it  was  not  Margaret  Yeomans  but  primordial 
Woman  that  wrenched  herself  from  his  arms,  when  he 
had  finished  speaking,  and  stood  trembling  in  the  dark- 
ness, blind  with  hate  and  misery,  and  hopeless,  intoler- 
able longing  to  keep  her  mate. 

Slowly  her  brave,  forgiving  soul  crept  back  into  its 
disordered  kingdom.  She  grew  quiet  with  the  resigna- 
tion of  hopelessness ;  and  her  efforts  to  save  the  situation, 
as  she  had  previously  determined,  calmed  her. 

His  fancied  coolness  toward  her,  in  the  light  of  his 
admissions,  became  an  established  fact.  Presently  he 
would  grow  cold  to  her;  and  she  would  find  no  favor  in 
his  eyes.  The  situation  called  for  prompt  action  on  her 
part,  and  a  dissimulation  which  would  spare  his  feelings 
and  her  own. 

The  Other  Woman  was  a  lady,  and  very  beautiful. 
That  much  she  had,  with  the  uncanny  methods  of  her  sex 
in  such  things,  extracted  from  the  uncommunicative 
James;  also,  that  he  wanted  to  marry  the  very  beautiful 
one,  of  course, — she  knew  this  without  asking — and 
equally,  of  course,  the  very  beautiful  one  wanted  to  marry 
James.  She  had  no  doubt  about  these  things;  but  she 
could  not  resist  expressing  a  doubt  about  the  beauty  of 
the  other,  directly  she  had  elicited  the  fact  that  she 


ii8  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

was  dark,  which  gave  her  the  opportunity  to  remind  him 
that  she  thought  he  preferred  fair  women — at  least,  he 
had  always  told  her  so.  Also  she  had  heard  that  dark 
girls  were  treacherous  and  scheming,  and  "plotters." 

She  was  only  voicing  what  she  certainly  believed  to  be 
a  well-authenticated  characteristic  of  dark  girls — a  belief 
that  seems  to  be  almost  as  general  among  fair  women  as 
its  converse  is,  apparently,  among  dark. 

Although  she  hated  her  rival  with  the  hatred  of  the 
displaced  in  the  affections  of  the  male,  her  love  was 
greater  than  her  hate.  She  hoped  they  would  be  very 
happy,  and  told  him  so ;  what  time  she  wondered  at  her 
own  self-control,  and  if  girls'  hearts  really  did  break  in 
real  life. 

To  which  James  had  answered,  tentatively,  that  he 
wasn't  sure  there  was  anything  in  it,  and  her  hypothesis 
respecting  his  relations  with  the  Other  Woman  passed  out 
of  the  region  of  controversial  things. 

"I'll  look  out  for  you  to-morrow  evening  at  the  usual 
time,  dear,"  he  said,  as  they  kissed  each  other  good-night 
in  the  friendly  shadows  of  a  wood  near  the  road.  He 
had  no  desire  to  give  up  Margaret  until  he  was  definitely 
bound  to  another.  No  doubt  her  present  tantrums  would 
blow  over.  She  was  a  very  sweet-tempered  girl  generally. 

She  kissed  him  again  passionately.  "Good-night,  Jim, 
dear!" 

They  had  reached  the  road,  and,  half  whispering 
"Good-bye,"  she  hurried  off — the  distant  lamps  leaping 
before  her  eyes  across  a  flood  of  burning  tears. 

So  they  parted:  the  unborn  life  which  they  had  evoked 
out  of  the  mysterious  mingling  of  sexual  springs,  which 
should  have  been  a  tie  to  draw  them  closer  together,  was 
to  divide  them ;  the  woman  taking  up  her  burden  to  pass 
out  of  his  life  in  a  silence  for  his  sake  stronger  than  her 
tears ;  the  man  unknowing,  unheeding,  thinking  chiefly  of 
the  Other  Woman  as  he  went  home  to  his  dinner,  and 
as  to  how  he  could  best  solve  the  problem  that  the  two 
represented. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  119 

He  could  have  cursed  himself  for  a  fool  for  what  he 
did,  away  there  in  Midford  Holt,  but  that  his  blood  still 
found  a  strong  delight  in  her  loving  caresses,  in  hours  of 
a  suitable  environment,  of  course.  He  was  fond  of  Mar- 
garet, Helen  or  no  Helen — that  was  the  devil  of  it.  At 
the  back  of  his  nature  he  knew  himself  polygamous.  The 
woman  awakened  in  Margaret  was  a  passionate  one,  and 
her  swift  desire  that  he  should  enjoy  her  to  the  top  of  his 
bent  was  purified  by  the  spontaneous  giving  of  a  sweet 
and  generous  womanhood. 

Nevertheless,  she  had  to  be  told  how  things  were 
going.  Hence  his  reasons  for  enlightening  her:  I  have 
described  with  what  result. 

He  waited  for  her  the  following  night,  but  Margaret 
did  not  come,  nor  did  she  the  next,  nor  the  next  after 
that,  and,  though  he  looked  for  her  night  after  night,  he 
saw  her  no  more.  At  first  he  was  angry — alarmed — un- 
comfortable— sorry;  then,  as  he  realized  that  if  she  had 
broken  with  him  for  good,  in  a  fit  of  jealousy,  it  would 
save  him  unpleasantness,  he  felt  a  sense  of  relief.  After 
all,  it  would  have  had  to  come  to  that  sooner  or  later.  He 
wrote  a  note  to  the  address  she  had  told  him  of,  but  no 
answer  came. 

In  a  few  weeks  the  girl  had  become  a  memory  of 
passionate  hours  to  him  and  little  else.  He  devoted  all 
his  time  to  Helen  Darell,  and,  by  a  curious  psychic  process 
of  his  own,  felt  an  access  of  virtue  in  that  he  was  faithful 
to  his  new  love — his  mistress  having  forsaken  him. 

For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Love  with  the  James 
Burketts  of  the  world. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

WHITE  CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

As  for  Margaret — timid,  shy,  with  the  bashfulness 
of  rustic  girlhood  among  strangers — she  had  become,  in 
a  few  weeks,  a  woman,  fearful  with  the  greatest  fear  of 
woman  in  her  heart,  yet  fearlessly  facing  the  inevitable. 

A  few  pounds  all  she  had  between  her  and  starvation; 
alone  in  a  city  whose  name  in  her  maidenhood  had  been 
synonymous  with  Sin  itself;  she  had  made  her  great  re- 
nunciation. 

She  had  written  every  week  to  her  aunt,  walking  to 
such  places  as  Putney  and  Clapham  and  Tooting  to  post 
the  letters.  She  knew  her  aunt  too  well  to  suppose  that 
— because  of  the  shame  she  had  brought  upon  them  both 
— that  good  woman  would  prefer  to  remain  in  ignorance 
of  her  niece's  wellbeing.  To  disappear  entirely  from 
Aunt  Deb's  ken  would  be  to  heap  further  misery  on  one 
who  had  been  as  a  mother  to  her.  She  told  her  aunt  that 
she  would  not  return  to  Stoke  Midford. 

Aunt  Deb,  for  the  girl's  sake,  had  given  out  the  ex- 
cuse which  Margaret  had  suggested  as  a  reason  for  her 
absence.  To  lend  color  to  it,  she  had  spent  her  own 
Christmas  Day  and  Boxing  Day  in  a  small  hotel-restau- 
rant at  Clapham  Junction — the  most  miserable  Christmas 
she  ever  remembered.  She  had  tired  herself  out  wander- 
ing about  the  neighborhood  in  the  forlorn  hope  of  meet- 
ing with  her  niece,  but  in  vain;  and  returned  to  Stoke  Mid- 
ford  but  firmer  in  her  already  established  conviction  that 
only  the  certainty  of  a  certain  "trouble"  could  keep  the 
girl  away  like  that.  She  was  prepared  for  the  worst, 
and  already — in  the  drafty  passages  of  Clapham  Junc- 
120 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  121 

tion  station,  in  the  mean  streets  of  Battersea  and  Wands- 
worth  and  Clapham,  in  her  uncomfortable  bedroom,  that 
cheerless  Christmastide — her  imagination  had  pictured 
Margaret's  return  with  the  inevitable  baby  (a  boy,  she 
hoped,  as  it  was  inevitable),  a  dreadful  cough,  poor 
thing !  looking  horribly  shabby  and  miserable  and  ill,  and 
altogether  disreputable. 

Also  she  had  imagined  herself  exorcising,  with  ad- 
mirable self-control,  the  demon  of  a  natural  and  justi- 
fiable curiosity;  and,  suppressing  all  reproach  and  scorn, 
exercising  the  prerogative  of  Mercy  and  Forgiveness — 
assisted  by  the  family  Bible  and  many  colored  texts  on 
the  walls,  cunningly  arranged  so  that  escape  from  their 
benign  influence  would  be  impossible. 

Leaving  Wimbledon,  Margaret  migrated  to  Balham 
— a  place  she  thought  would  be  prolific  in  the  type  of 
household  for  which  her  services  would  be  in  most  re- 
quest. 

She  found  herself  in  a  road  near  the  station,  whose 
inhabitants  appeared  to  pursue  a  variety  of  trades  and 
occupations. 

A  blue  paper  stuck  in  the  window  of  one  house  inti- 
mated that  "New-laid  eggs  strait  from  hants  1^4  each" 
were  to  be  had  within.  A  little  further  on  dwelt  one 
whose  message  to  his  age  might  be  considered  a  modern 
adaptation  of  the  Fiat  lux.  On  a  dirty  square  of  card- 
board, fastened  above  his  front  door  on  the  fanlight,  was 
dimly  discernible  the  legend— WINDOWS  CLEANED 
LIKE  CRISTAL.  The  condition  of  his  own  had,  ap- 
parently, escaped  his  notice  altogether;  a  circumstance 
which  betokened  his  affinity  with  many  reformers  in  other 
walks  of  life. 

A  stout  elderly  lady  with  a  small  black  bonnet  and 
string  bag,  pinched,  with  black  gloved  fingers,  the  dis- 
torted limbs  of  a  number  of  crucified  and  disemboweled 
rabbits  arranged  in  a  setting  of  parsley  on  a  stall  in  the 
"front  garden"  of  the  next  house.  The  proprietor,  in  a 
yellow-and-black-hooped  jersey,  watched  with  an  air  of 
one  in  whom  patience  is  a  more  frequently  exercised  vir- 


122  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

tue  than  that  which  is  commonly  supposed  to  rank  next  to 
godliness. 

A  "real"  shop  followed — outside  which  hung  a  board 
displaying  the  ancient  name  of  Smith,  above  a  livid  crim- 
son hand  pointing  to  various  notices  in  the  window  be- 
low, where  MONSTERS  id  struggled  with  Rutter's 
Mitcham  Shag  for  recognition,  and  ices  id  and  2d  were  \ 
vaguely  reminiscent  of  forgotten  summer  days.  Above 
the  door  hung  another  board — SHAVING  i  and  i  */2  ; 
the  artist  who  ministered  to  the  facial  requirements  of 
the  neighborhood's  male  population  appealing  to  a 
widely  diversified  clientele — from  the  rough  and  ready 
removals  of  the  "Penny  shave,"  to  the  sybaritic  lux- 
ury suggested  by  the  symbol  with  the  additional  frac- 
tion. 

A  few  dirty-looking  houses,  with  curtains  matching 
the  prevailing  dirtiness  that  was  their  most  noticeable 
feature;  and  then  a  variegated  assortment  of  furniture 
overflowed  into  the  muddy  patch  of  mold  in  front  of  one 
of  them.  A  rusty  chain  mattress  hung  like  a  net  above 
bedroom  crockery,  fire-irons,  and  a  battered  meat-jack. 
Beside  the  heap  leaned  a  fine  and  large  example,  in  oils, 
of  an  unknown  school,  depicting  three  dirty  and  fleshy 
females,  in  that  entire  absence  of  costume  fashionable  in 
the  Golden  Age,  who  posed  themselves  with  an  obviously 
affected  air  of  modesty  before  a  similarly  attired  Paris, 
holding  something  between  a  Blenheim  Orange  and  a 
mangel.  The  artist  had  quite  failed  to  grasp  the  char- 
acter of  Argive  Helen's  ravisher,  as  that  individual  was, 
apparently,  taking  not  the  slightest  interest  in  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  ladies  displaying  their  many  charms  be- 
fore him,  but  was  earnestly  studying  what,  at  first  sight, 
appeared  to  be  a  large  fish,  but  what,  upon  closer  inspec- 
tion, proved  to  be  a  silver  cloud.  The  lot  was  marked — 
With  Frame  Dirt  cheap,  10/6. 

Margaret  stopped  a  moment,  arrested  by  the,  to  her, 
extraordinary  and  brazen  immodesty  of  the  scene;  but 
looking  up,  suddenly,  she  encountered  the  eyes  of  a 
bilious-looking  man  in  shirt-sleeves  watching  her  from  be- 


"THRACIAN  SEA1"  123 

hind  a  tower  of  kitchen  chairs,  and,  blushing,  she  hur- 
ried on. 

At  last  she  got  clear  of  the  more  obtrusive  trading 
portion  of  the  thoroughfare,  and  looked  about  for  a 
lodging.  It  was  necessary  that  she  should  economize; 
rooms  should  be  cheap  there,  she  thought. 

In  the  window  of  a  small  but  tidier-looking  house, 
with  a  well-cut  privet  hedge  in  front,  was  a  card — Bed- 
room Furnished;  and,  over  the  door,  a  bright  green  board 
bore  the  inscription — "Rush.  Gardener.  Wreaths  and 
Crosses  to  Order." 

She  knocked;  and  Rush,  Gardener,  belied  the  first 
part  of  the  inscription  by  answering  the  door  in  leisurely 
fashion,  an  emblem  of  his  profession,  however,  in  his 
hand.  He  was  a  wiry  little  man,  with  honest  brown  eyes 
and  curly  hair. 

"About  the  bedroom?  Yes,  miss.  The  missus  is 
out,  but  yer  can  see  it  for  yerself." 

Margaret  followed  him  up  the  narrow  stairs.  It 
was  a  small  room  at  the  back  of  the  house,  overlooking 
a  well-kept  piece  of  garden,  with  a  small  conservatory 
and  potting-shed.  The  room  was  poorly  furnished,  but 
very  clean.  On  a  little  table  before  the  window  stood 
a  gallipot  filled  with  fine  white  chrysanthemums. 

"Fancy  o'  the  missus,"  he  said,  standing  at  the  door, 
and  pointing  with  the  trowel  he  was  carrying  at  the  flow- 
ers. "Our  little  girl's  room  'twas — our  little  Jessie  wot 
the  Diptherier  took  off  when  she  wor  five.  Died  with 
white  chrysanths  in  er  and,  poor  mite,  and  missus  sez: 
'Joe,  the  docter  sez  when  she  come  there'll  be  no  more. 
Twill  be  lonely  fer  ee,  she  sez,  and  me,  too,  Joe,  when 
ye're  out  and  about  orl  day!'  She  died  ten  year  ago  last 
Christmas  as  was,  but  the  missus  as  never  missed  aving 
them  there  flowers  stuck  in  er  room  when  they're  in. 
And  didn't  never  mean  to  neither,  but  er  old  father,  wot 
wer  in  the  Mutiny,  bein  took  that  hill  last  week  with 
assmer,  she  sez :  'Joe,  I'm  thinkin  we'll  let  Jessie's  room, 
if  we  can  find  a  nice  clean  respectable  party,  and  give  the 
rent  to  father,'  she  sez.  Thought  I'd  tell  yer  about  the 


i24  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

flowers,  miss,  becoz  if  yer  wouldn't  mind  em,  twould  be 
a  great  relief  to  er — but  if  yer  don't  like  to  ave  em,  of 
course  that'll  be  orl  rite.  We  shouldn't  like  no  one  to 
be  made  mournful-like  becoz  of  em.  If  yer  like  the  room 
don't  tell  missus  I  mentioned  it  to  yer.  The  rent,  she 
sez,  ud  be  five  bob." 

Margaret  instinctively  felt  she  would  be  safe  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rush.  After  sympathizing  with  him  about 
his  lost  child,  and  assuring  him  that  she  would  have  no 
objection  whatever  to  the  flowers,  she  explained  that  she 
was  seeking  a  situation,  and  might  only  want  the  room  for 
a  week.  If  he  cared  to  accept  her  she  was  willing  to  take 
it  at  once — thereby  avoiding  certain  questions  that  she 
knew  Mrs.  Rush  would  put  to  her  otherwise. 

Mr.  Rush  thought  he  might  take  it  upon  himself  to 
let  the  room  in  the  absence  of  his  wife,  so  Margaret  en- 
gaged it  then  and  there,  and  went  back  to  the  station, 
where  she  had  left  her  bag. 

Mrs.  Rush  was  a  slight  little  woman,  with  rather  sad 
eyes  and  a  cheerful  manner,  who  had  in  reality  a  heart  of 
gold.  She  was  not,  of  course,  without  her  quantum  of 
that  suspicion  which  seems  inherent  in  all  her  sex  toward 
each  other,  and  which  is,  perhaps,  responsible  to  a  great 
extent  for  the  (to  a  man)  preternatural  capacity  for 
"seeing  through  her,"  which  woman  possesses,  when  the 
object  of  her  scrutiny  is  one  of  her  sex.  It  is  fair  to  as- 
sume that,  where  the  suspicious  is  the  practically  univer- 
sal mental  attitude,  it  must  sometimes  be  justified  by  facts ; 
nor  can  it  be  urged  against  her  that,  when  circumstances 
prove  the  correctness  of  a  diagnosis,  her  sex  alone  is  pe- 
culiar in  that  vanity  embodied  in  the  triumphant  "I  told 
you  so!" 

She  had  arrived  home  by  the  time  that  Margaret  re- 
turned from  the  station,  and  met  her  new  lodger  with 
an  apparently  open  mind,  but  which  was,  actually,  nothing 
of  the  sort.  The  fact  that  her  husband  had  let  the  room 
in  his  wife's  absence  was,  of  course,  a  sufficient  and  valid 
reason,  in  itself,  for  suspicion;  not  that  Joe  was  a  fool, 
but  men  were  so  easily  taken  in.  The  girl's  disinclination 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  125 

to  be  conversative  confirmed  her  in  her  belief  that  there 
was  something — a  belief  that  she  imparted  to  Rush  that 
afternoon  in  the  potting-shed. 

The  spirit  of  Prophecy  was  strong  upon  her,  as  well 
it  might  be,  seeing  that  only  two  nights  before  she  had 
dreamed  that  she  saw  the  Crystal  Palace  on  fire — a 
dream  which,  with  its  import  that  something  was  going 
to  happen,  she  had  reminded  him  of,  at  the  time.  She 
had,  in  fact,  kept  on  reminding  him  ever  since,  and  he 
might  laugh,  but  mark  her  words! 

Mr.  Rush  smiled  good-temperedly  at  his  wife's  acu- 
men in  discovering  "things,"  through  the  faith  that  was 
in  her  of  the  efficacy  of  dreams,  and,  although  he  was 
skeptical  about  her  interpretations,  like  her,  he  believed 
that  nothing  was  sent  for  "nowt,"  and  chopped  a  wire- 
worm  in  half  as  he  replied:  "Yer  may  be  rite,  missus!" 

Margaret's  unassuming  manner  and  evident  gentle- 
ness of  disposition  had,  however,  favorably  impressed  the 
childless  woman;  and  when,  late  that  afternoon,  the  girl 
came  down  from  her  room,  where  she  had  been  writing 
about  some  situations,  the  poor  thing  looked  so  tired, 
that  an  invitation  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  before  she  went 
out  was  prompted  more  by  kindness  of  heart  than  any  de- 
sire to  give  her  an  opportunity  to  "talk." 

She  was  beginning  to  miss  her  aunt  sadly,  and  her  few 
words  with  Mrs.  Rush  had  awakened  the  desire  for  com- 
panionship of  her  own  sex.  At  Wimbledon,  the  excite- 
ment of  looking  forward — at  first — to  seeing  her  lover, 
and  then — afterward — to  meeting  him,  had  disguised  the 
harsher  features  of  her  case. 

As  she  went  down  the  dingy  street,  dingier  and  dirtier 
than  any  she  had  seen  in  Wimbledon,  surrounded  by  the 
tawdry  squalor  of  suburban  slumland,  her  heart  sank. 
The  twelve  pounds  she  had  brought  with  her  when  she 
left  Midford  had  nearly  half  gone.  She  had  found  that, 
without  a  character,  it  was  difficult  to  find  a  "place."  So 
far  her  powers  of  invention  had  been  unequal  to  the  task 
of  satisfactorily  representing  her  past  and  present  to  the 


126  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

various  "ladies  of  the  house"  she  had  interviewed.  To 
have  given  her  aunt's  name  and  address  would  have  been 
to  divulge  her  whereabouts,  and,  perhaps,  bring  Aunt 
Deb  hot  upon  her  trail;  and  she  could  not  face  Aunt  Deb 
— yet.  She  remembered  what  her  aunt  had  said  about 
God  and  Hettie  Ryott. 

She  wandered  about,  making  inquiries  at  various  reg- 
istry offices;  and,  at  last,  feeling  tired  out,  directed  her 
steps  toward  the  Rushs'.  It  was  raining — with  the  steady 
methodical  fall  of  a  windless  night,  and  the  patches  of 
lamp-light,  on  the  greasy  pavements,  emphasized  the  pre- 
vailing dirtiness  of  everything  as  she  walked  up  the  road. 

Mrs.  Rush  brought  her  a  candle,  and  Margaret  said 
good-night,  and  went  up  the  dim  staircase  to  her  room. 
Strange  fancies  were  beginning  to  wait  for  her  now,  as 
she  set  down  the  light  on  the  table,  where  the  peculiar 
smell  of  the  flowers  came  strongly  to  her. 

She  dropped  the  blind,  and  sat  on  the  bed,  gazing  at 
the  white  flowers  shining  in  the  candle-light.  For  a"  mo- 
ment her  courage  failed  her  as  she  thought  of  the  child 
that  had  died  in  that  room  years  ago;  and  she  buried  her 
face  in  the  bed  and  cried  passionately. 

If  his  child  were  to  die,  and  she  live! 

At  the  thought  she  sat  up,  trembling  with  fear.  The 
thin,  still  flame  of  the  candle  beside  the  white  flowers 
seemed  like  the  eternal  passing  of  life  into  the  great 
Silence  beyond,  pregnant  with  invisible  things  as  the  room 
around  her  seemed  to  be  now.  Into  her  own  life  were 
being  woven  the  strands  of  another — a  life  that  was 
creeping,  body  and  soul,  into  and  out  of  her  own. 

Her  face  had  gone  suddenly  very  white:  the  room 
rocked  before  her.  Then  the  terror  passed,  and  she  sat 
still  and  quiet,  with  strange  rapt  eyes  fastened  upon  the 
light  and  the  flowers.  Somehow,  the  image  of  Christ 
was  hanging  above  them  now,  as  at  an  altar — Christ  who 
was  merciful  to  fallen  women. 

The  next  moment  the  lonely  girl  was  on  her  knees 
beside  the  table,  praying  wildly. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

MRS.  GHOOLE 

MARGARET  had  seen,  the  previous  evening,  on  a 
board  hanging  outside  a  shop,  the  particulars  of  a  place 
at  Streatham,  where  a  "Cook  General"  was  wanted. 
"Wages  £16  and  all  found." 

The  morning  was  mild  and  clear,  and,  after  inquiring 
the  way  of  Mrs.  Rush,  she  set  out  across  Tooting  Com- 
mon toward  Streatham,  determined  to  try  her  luck,  with 
a  feeling  of  hopefulness  she  somehow  attributed  to  her 
prayers  of  the  night  before. 

Sitting  on  a  seat,  she  commenced  to  think  out  a  new 
plan  of  campaign.  Presently  a  man  came  along  and  sat 
down,  remarking,  as  he  did  so,  that  it  was  a  fine  morn- 
ing. She  assented  without  looking  at  him — so  many 
men  had  accosted  her  since  she  came  to  London  that 
she  was  getting  used  to  it.  He  seemed,  however,  a  pleas- 
ant-spoken young  fellow,  she  thought,  and,  gradually, 
they  commenced  chatting  on  a  variety  of  subjects. 

With  the  freedom  of  his  kind,  he  informed  her  that 
his  wife  had  left  him  some  time  before,  when  he  was  out 
of  a  job;  she  had  taken  a  place  as  a  cook,  and  now  re- 
fused to  come  back  to  him,  having  taken  up  with  another 
bloke.  He  was  looking  out  for  a  nice  girl:  he  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  lonely:  he  told  her. 

She  did  not  respond  to  the  thinly  veiled  hint;  but 
the  man's  gratuitous  information  respecting  his  conjugal 
difficulties  had  set  her  thinking. 

He  had  solved  the  problem  for  her,  surely!  She 
had  never  dreamed  of  such  depths  of  deception  before, 
127 


128  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

but  she  was  getting  desperate;  besides,  it  was  for  the 
child's  sake  more  than  her  own! 

She  rose  suddenly,  and,  saying  good-morning  to  him, 
stepped  out  briskly,  half  afraid  that  he  might  follow 
her  and  endeavor  to  continue  their  acquaintance.  He  did 
not,  however,  and  she  concentrated  her  mind  upon  a 
plausible  story  which  might  suffice  for  the  mistress  of  No. 
15,  Plane  Tree  Avenue. 

One  result  of  her  cogitations,  when  she  reached  the 
main  road,  was  to  get  on  a  car  going  to  Brixton,  in  which 
busy  neighborhood  she  purchased  a  wedding-ring,  at  a 
small  pawnbroker's  and  jeweler's — the  shops  in  Streat- 
ham  overpowering  her  with  their  importance.  She  had 
entered  the  shop  with  a  feeling  of  guiltiness  strong  upon 
her;  but  the  man,  apparently,  thought  nothing  of  her  re- 
quest, and  she  emerged  with  a  sense  of  relief  at  a  painful 
ordeal  over,  her  cheeks  very  red,  the  ring  on  her  hand, 
and  fifteen  shillings  less  in  her  pocket. 

On  the  tram  going  up  the  hill  to  Streatham  she  found 
comfort  in  the  shopman's  indifference;  and,  in  the  ex- 
citement of  her  contemplated  deceptions,  she  felt  some- 
thing akin  to  a  feeling  of  assurance  within  her.  She 
would  want  it  all,  she  told  herself,  if  she  was  to  suc- 
ceed. 

She  found  her  way  to  Plane  Tree  Avenue,  whose 
umbrageous  nomenclature  had  for  its  justification  a  num- 
ber of  youthful  planes  sprouting  out  of  the  pavement  on 
either  side;  and,  walking  hurriedly  over  the  gaudy  tiles 
from  the  gate,  she  rang  boldly  at  No.  15,  a  semi-de- 
tached house  of  the  usual  red-brick  villa  type. 

A  red-haired  young  woman  of  ferocious  aspect,  in  a 
dirty  blue  print  frock,  opened  the  door,  and  stood  look- 
ing sullenly  at  Margaret. 

"Yes,  you  can  see  'er,  I  dessay.  If  you'll  step  in  I'll 
tell  'er.  Wot  name?"  she  said  in  answer  to  her  inquiries. 

"Oh,  she  don't  know  my  name,"  replied  Margaret. 
"I've  come  about  a  place." 

"Oh !"  The  blue  print  one  looked  unprintable  things, 
and,  advancing  close  to  Margaret  as  she  shut  the  door 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  129 

behind  her,  said  in  a  voice  of  wrath:  "Gawd! — she  is 
a  cow!" 

Next — leaving  the  visitor  to  digest  that  comforting 
piece  of  information  on  the  mat — she  shouted  up  the 
stairs  in  a  mocking  voice:  "Mrs.  Ghoole!"  Turning, 
she  made  a  fearful  grimace,  and  then  retired  down  the 
passage  to  the  kitchen;  from  whence,  immediately  after- 
ward, came  the  sound  of  a  plate  dashed  to  its  doom  on  a 
stone  floor,  followed  by  a  defiant  chuckle  and  the  voice 
of  the  virago  bursting  into  song: 


"Yes,  Jesus  loves 
The  Bible  tells  me  so!" 

Margaret  was  so  startled  at  the  rapid  succession  of 
events  that  she  stood  listening  to  the  girl's  singing — 
vaguely  expecting  that  another  crash  would  follow.  In- 
stead, a  sharp  voice  suddenly  said  from  the  staircase: 
"Well?"  and  Mrs.  Ghoole,  in  a  crimson  dressing-gown 
and  carpet  slippers,  came  noiselessly  down  the  stairs 
toward  her,  with  an  expression  of  such  extreme  spite- 
fulness  on  her  face  that  Margaret's  heart  sank  within 
her  at  the  sight. 

She  saw,  next  moment,  that  the  red-haired  girl  was 
the  cause,  and  breathed  again  as  Mrs.  Ghoole  stood  glar- 
ing along  the  passage  at  the  offending  voice.  Then  she 
darted  at  a  door,  and,  opening  it,  waved  Margaret  into 
the  dining-room,  and  followed  her,  shutting  the  door 
viciously. 

"She  goes  at  the  end  of  the  week,  thank  goodness! 
— the  impudent  slut!"  said  Mrs.  Ghoole  as  she  beck- 
oned Margaret  to  a  chair,  and  sat  down  herself.  She 
was  a  large  stout  woman,  with  eyes  of  a  greenish  mud 
color  set  very  close  together  in  her  head,  and  a  quan- 
tity of  "various"  hair  that  changed  from  light  brown 
at  the  roots  to  a  golden  chestnut  tint  toward  its 
ends. 

Then  Margaret,  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands, 
played  her  cards  boldly. 


130  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  should  suit  you,  ma'am. 
I'm  married,  and  never  been  out  to  service  before." 

Mrs.  Ghoole's  eyes  crept  even  closer  together,  and 
she  frowned.  She  was  about  to  speak — then  she  checked 
herself.  She  "couldn't  keep  her  servants" — and  Plane 
Tree  Avenue  placed  its  own  construction  upon  the  fact. 
Its  remarks  reaching  her  ears  from  time  to  time  had 
been  as  thorns  in  her  flesh,  and  the  area  of  the  latter 
being  very  considerable  and  easily  inflamed,  her  neigh- 
bors' sayings  about  her  made  her  feel  at  times  like  a 
gigantic  pincushion. 

Margaret,  seeing  that  she  was  expected  to  offer  a 
further  explanation,  went  on  to  say  that  her  husband 
had  left  her  and  gone  abroad;  and  that  she  was  looking 
out  for  a  place  as  Cook  General,  in  which  she  was  sure 
she  could  give  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Ghoole  eyed  her  closely,  dividing  her  attention 
between  Margaret's  narrative  and  sounds  of  stealthy 
footsteps  outside  the  door. 

"Who  can  I  apply  to  for  a  character  for  you, 
Mrs. " 

Margaret  had  the  name  ready,  almost  too  ready,  she 
feared,  as  she  said  quickly,  "Young.  My  name's  Mar- 
garet Young.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  give  you  the  name  of 
any  one  who'd  speak  for  me  ...  I'm  .  .  .  I'm  rather 
proud  and  ...  I  don't  want  any  of  my  friends  to  know 
I'm  going  into  service,  ma'am." 

Now  Margaret,  in  spite  of  a  country  accent  and  coun- 
try clothes,  was  of  obviously  superior  stuff  to  the  ordi- 
nary "general,"  and  Mrs.  Ghoole  saw  in  her  an  oppor- 
tunity for  scoring  heavily  in  the  interesting  game  of 
"Servants";  which  was  one  of  the  stock  recreations  of 
her  lady  friends — if  friends  they  can  be  called  whose 
friendship  is  a  thing  of  scandal,  and  slander,  and  calumny, 
of  petty  recriminations  and  quarrels,  and  all  that  unchari- 
tableness  which  is,  to  their  order  of  femininity,  both  a 
relaxation  and  mental  pabulum  combined. 

It  was  possible  that  the  girl  was  a  thief;  it  was  proba- 
ble— highly  probable — that  she  was  no  better  than  she 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  131 

ought  to  be;  it  was  equally  probable  that  her  husband  was 
a  fairy  tale.  There  would  be  risks,  of  course,  but  she 
must  be  prepared  to  take  them.  There  was  just  a  chance 
of  her  turning  out  a  treasure.  If  she  did,  then  Mrs. 
Ghoole  knew  that  she  would  be  envied  of  all  her  neigh- 
bors— the  consummation  most  devoutly  to  be  wished  for 
in  the  delectable  society  in  which  she  moved.  As  for 
her  "pride,"  Mrs.  Ghoole  felt  herself  quite  qualified  to 
successfully  eradicate  that  vice. 

She  seemed,  anyhow,  a  very  superior  young  person. 
Therefore  Mrs.  Ghoole  considered — her  lips  tightening 
until  her  mouth  was  a  scarcely  visible  organ. 

"How  much  wages  do  you  want,  Mrs.  Young?" 

"Sixteen  pounds,  ma'am." 

"Well,  you'd  better  leave  me  your  address,  and  I'll 
think  it  over.  When  could  you  come  if  I  decided  to  en- 
gage you?  Next  Saturday?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Margaret;  and  she  wrote  her  ad- 
dress on  a  piece  of  paper  that  Mrs.  Ghoole  produced 
from  her  pocket. 

That  lady  looked  at  the  address;  and  Margaret  rose 
to  go.  As  she  opened  the  door  the  Voice  shouted  from 
the  kitchen:  "And  I  shall  be  whiter  than  the  sno-o-w!" 

That  decided  Mrs.  Ghoole,  whose  own  white  face 
glowed  with  purple  rage,  as  if  in  the  words  it  had  dis- 
covered a  personal  affront. 

"If  I  engage  you  now,  will  you  be  certain  to  come 
next  Saturday?"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Very  well,  then,  Mrs.  Young,  please  consider  your- 
self engaged.  I  shall  expect  you  next  Saturday  afternoon 
at  four  o'clock." 

Margaret  walked  down  Plane  Tree  Avenue,  inwardly 
blessing  the  ferocious-looking  girl  with  a  taste  for  hymn 
tunes,  and  reflecting  upon  her  coming  trials  under  the 
amiable  Mrs.  Ghoole;  yet,  withal,  with  a  great  thankful- 
ness in  her  heart. 


CHAPTER   XV 

THRACIAN  SEA  AND  BEVERLEY  BROOK 

"BOB !"  shouted  James  Burkett  from  the  lawn  at  the 
back  of  "Downlands,"  one  afternoon  in  February. 

Bob  appeared  round  the  corner  from  the  coach-house 
with  some  harness  in  one  hand  and  a  brush  in  the  other. 

"Yes,  Mr.  James?" 

"Put  Sunlight  in  the  dogcart;  make  yourself  respect- 
able; and  come  with  me  to  the  station." 

Bob  hurried  off;  and  Mr.  James  took  a  letter  from 
his  pocket  and  read  it  through  carefully.  He  had  been 
having  the  Devil's  own  luck  lately.  A  fiver  on  the  favo- 
rite in  a  "Selling"  at  Kempton,  played  up  on  three  other 
races,  had  netted  him  over  £300  as  a  result  of  the  four 
bets.  Determined  at  first  "to  leave  the  lot  down"  on  a 
supposed  good  thing  in  a  three-mile  steeplechase  at  Wind- 
sor, something  had  put  him  right  off  it  on  the  day  of  the 
race;  and  the  good  thing,  after  being  out  by  himself,  had 
failed,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  as  good  things 
have  a  playful  habit  of  doing.  James,  who  had  been 
cursing  his  folly  and  timidity,  a  moment  later  was  con- 
gratulating himself,  as  is  the  way  of  backers,  upon  his 
superior  judgment  in  having  kept  off  it. 

He  had  felt  that  the  occasion  had  called  for  some- 
thing to  celebrate  his  good  fortune,  and  the  day  before 
had  picked  up  a  bargain  in  the  shape  of  "Thracian  Sea" 
— an  eight-year-old  gelding  by  St.  Simon — Samothrace, 
who  had  won  second  class  handicaps  on  the  flat,  with  top 
weight,  and  who,  he  had  ascertained,  jumped  like  a  cat. 
The  horse  had  been  used  as  a  hack  after  getting  a  bit 
slow;  and  his  owner,  being  short  of  the  ready,  had  parted 
132 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  133 

with  him  to  James  for  £200  and  a  "contingency"  if  put 
to  the  "other  game." 

James  had  satisfied  himself  as  to  the  horse's  jumping 
capacity,  and  believed  he  would  see  his  money  back  sev- 
eral times  over  before  the  end  of  March,  more  especially 
as  the  horse  had  recently  been  doing  good  work  with  a 
string  of  his  late  owner's  jumpers  that  were  coming  up 
for  sale. 

He  was  due  at  Wimbledon  station  that  afternoon, 
James  having  decided  to  have  him  at  "Downlands"  for 
a  week,  before  sending  him  away  to  a  trainer  at  Epsom 
with  whom  he  was  acquainted.  It  was  his  initial  venture 
as  an  owner,  and  he  looked  forward  with  pleasurable  ex- 
citement to  seeing  his  colors  carried  for  the  first  time. 

Bob  reappeared;  and  James,  as  he  drove  to  the  sta- 
tion, confided  to  his  man  particulars  of  their  equine  visi- 
tor's pedigree  and  performances,  and  his  hopes  respecting 
him  for  the  future. 

They  saw  the  horse  unboxed — James,  with  boyish 
eagerness  to  view  his  newly  acquired  champion,  telling 
Bob  to  take  the  horse's  clothing  off — and  looked  him  over 
critically  together. 

He  was  quite  a  nice  type  of  horse — a  bright  bay  with 
black  points — and,  for  the  time  of  year,  looked  in  first 
rate  condition  as  he  stood,  quiet  as  a  sheep,  in  the  station 
yard.  In  spite  of  his  long  career  on  the  turf  his  legs 
were  still  clean,  and  showed  very  little  signs  of  wear; 
and  James  was  soon  informing  himself  that  he  had  got 
hold  of  a  bargain. 

He  had  decided  to  race  him  for  the  remainder  of  the 
jumping  season  proper;  win  two  or  three  races  with  him 
if  he  could;  and  then  make  a  present  of  him  to  Helen 
if  he  found  him  quiet  enough  for  her  to  ride. 

He  left  Bob  with  instructions  to  walk  the  horse  home ; 
and  drove  back  to  "Downlands." 

When  Thracian  Sea  arrived  he  put  a  saddle  on  him; 
and  a  few  minutes  later  was  on  the  common,  where,  after 
a  couple  of  canters,  he  gave  him  a  gallop  at  half  speed. 
Delighted  with  the  way  the  old  chap  went  and  behaved 


i34  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

altogether,  James,  that  evening,  at  "Cloudeshill,"  un- 
folded his  racing  plans  to  Helen,  without  mentioning  his 
ultimate  objective. 

She  entered  with  spirit  into  the  idea ;  and  he  was  de- 
lighted with  her  keenness  respecting  Thracian  Sea's 
hoped  for  successes  in  his  colors — which,  at  his  sugges- 
tion, she  was  to  select  for  him.  He  hoped  she  would 
come  out  on  the  following  afternoon  and  see  the  horse  do 
a  gallop. 

She  assented  with  such  evident  interest  that  James 
felt  that  he  was  making  rapid  progress  in  her  affections. 
The  time  was  not  far  distant  when  he  would  be  able  to 
ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  with  a  very  good  prospect  of  her 
assent  to  that  proposition  as  well. 

He  got  back  from  the  City  by  two  o'clock  the  fol- 
lowing afternoon;  and,  riding  to  the  southern  end  of  the 
common,  he  hacked  about  the  roads  until  he  saw  Helen 
coming  to  meet  him. 

The  west  wind  had  brought  a  faint  flush  of  pink  into 
her  cheeks,  and  she  looked  radiant  as  she  smiled  her  ap- 
proval of  his  mount. 

"Do  you  like  him?"  he  asked,  after  her  scrutiny. 

"Oh,  rather!  He  seems  a  quiet  fellow,  too !  What  a 
nice,  kind  old  head  he's  got!"  she  added,  playfully  strok- 
ing Thracian  Sea's  muzzle. 

"Quiet?  Quiet  as  a  lamb!  You  could  ride  him!" 
said  James  eagerly. 

If  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  she  loved  it  was 
a  good  horse.  She  sighed,  and  her  eyes  sought  the  man's 
a  moment  and  then  wandered  away  across  the  wide  sweep 
of  grass-land  toward  the  Windmill. 

She  walked  beside  him  half  way  to  that  landmark; 
and  then  he  turned  and  cantered  back  to  the  end  of  the 
grass.  There,  pulling  up,  he  turned  again,  and  jumped 
the  horse  off  at  score,  shaking  him  up  a  bit  before  reach- 
ing Helen,  so  that  she  could  see  Thracian  Sea  at  his  best 
pace,  which  was  very  considerable  despite  the  big  weight 
he  was  carrying.  He  still  retained  his  action,  and  was  a 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  135 

beautiful  mover  when  fully  extended.     James  was  blow- 
ign  more  than  the  horse  when  he  came  back  to  her. 

She  laughed.    "I  thought  you  said  you  were  very  fit!" 
"So  I  am;  but  the  old  beggar  can  go  fast  enough  to 
choke  you! — and  I  ride  nearer  fourteen  than  thirteen, 
too!"  he  answered,  highly  elated  with  the  result  of  the 


gallop. 
Wl 


rhen  young  people  discover  they  have  one  taste  in 
common  it  frequently  happens,  by  some  subtle  process  or 
other,  that  such  discovery  is  but  the  stepping  stone  to 
others — whereby  they  exemplify  the  unity  that  exists  in 
things  sentimental  as  well  as  scientific. 

They  had  reached  the  Windmill;  and  James  remarked 
casually  that  he  loved  the  old  common :  it  was  the  only 
place  between  there  and  the  City  where  one  could  breathe. 

They  stopped;  and  Helen  said:  "Rather!  I  love  it! 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  one  day  to  explore  the  woods 
across  to — Coombe,  isn't  it?" — pointing  to  the  wooded 
hills  to  the  southwest. 

"Let  me  show  you  round,  I  know  all  the  rides,"  said 
James,  dismounting  as  he  spoke;  and,  Helen  agreeing, 
they  were  soon  deep  among  the  birch  and  oak  woods  that 
clothe  the  western  valleys  and  slopes  at  Wimbledon. 

"Tell  you  what,  Helen !"  becoming  suddenly  confiden- 
tial— "I've  thought  of  a  great  scheme!" 

Amused  at  his  tone,  she  laughingly  answered:  "Yes 
.  .  .  Jim?"  and  stood  waiting — looking  at  him  where 
he  had  stopped  at  the  corner  of  a  glade. 

"I'll  put  a  lady's  saddle  on  Sunlight,  and  bring  him 
over  to  your  place  to-morrow  afternoon ;  and  we'll  have  a 
ride  together  across  here  and  through  into  Richmond 
Park!  Mrs.  Darell  won't  mind  if  I  promise  to  keep  you 
away  from  any  timber?" 

Her  face  showed  the  pleasure  that  she  felt  at  his  sug- 

ntion.     "I  should  like  it  awfully!     Mater  won't  mind, 
aresay." 

"Sunlight  is  an  armchair  to  ride,  my  sister  rode  him 
regularly  at  one  time !" 

Helen  did  not  like  armchair  rides — she  would  have 


136  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

dearly  liked  to  have  felt  Thracian  Sea  under  her  at  that 
moment;  but  Sunlight  was  better  than  nothing,  and  sad- 
dles were  not  unchangeable  articles  of  horse  furniture, 
nor  sore  backs  an  inevitable  corollary,  she  remembered. 
It  would  not  be  her  fault  if  they  did  not  change  mounts 
— for  a  spell,  anyhow!  If  Miss  Burkett  saw  her  on  Sun- 
light— probably  on  Miss  Burkett's  own  saddle — there 
would  be  much  heartburning  in  certain  quarters  openly 
hostile  to  her  now.  That  particular  form  of  indigestion 
— in  a  rival — would  afford  her  considerable  satisfaction 
as  things  were.  She  realized  that  if  she  were  to  win 
James  for  a  husband  it  would  have  to  be — metaphori- 
cally speaking — over  the  bodies  of  many  women.  She 
knew  his  sister  was  an  active  and  untiring  enemy,  and  al- 
ways would  be — women  knowing  these  things  by  some  in- 
fallible methods  of  their  own.  She  knew  that  to  make 
Miss  Burkett  angry  would  be  to  obtain  that  advantage 
which  a  cool  adversary  has  over  an  excited  one,  and,  in 
addition,  arouse  James  to  champion  her  cause  against  his 
family.  She  had  already  seen  Miss  Burkett  under  the 
influence  of  anger  toward  her,  and  the  sight  had  con- 
firmed her  preconceived  belief  that  attempts  had  been 
made  to  get  James  away  from  her  and  failed.  If  she  dis- 
liked Sybil  and  her  chum,  Phoebe  Price,  it  was  not  simply 
because  they  were  enemies.  Her  attempts  to  analyze  her 
own  feelings  toward  her  sex  at  times  completely  baf- 
fled her;  and  she  was  clever  enough  to  realize  that  she 
was  subject  to  the  antipathies  common  to  women  in  gen- 
eral, that  are  as  potent  as  they  are  frequently  justified 
by  subsequent  events.  Recognizing,  also,  that  the  two 
girls  detested  her  for  similar  reasons — in  Phoebe's  case 
the  hatred  of  an  unsuccessful  rival  adding  fuel  to  the  fire 
— she  felt  that  more  was  to  be  gained  by  increasing  it 
than  by  any  attempt  on  her  part  at  conciliation. 

Had  Helen  loved  James  Burkett  all  her  other  emo- 
tions would  have  been  subordinated  to  her  passion,  but 
love  was  a  thing  unknown  to  her — then.  She  looked  upon 
him  as  a  prize  which  her  own  personal  charms  might 
captivate  for  a  time,  but  which  would  largely  depend  upon 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  137 

her  own  generalship  and  skill  as  a  strategist  to  reduce  to 
that  degree  of  subjugation  when  she  could  enjoy  the 
full  fruits  of  her  victory.  She  was  ambitious;  and  she 
had  mixed  sufficiently  with  the  opposite  sex  to  acquire 
the  data  necessary  for  an  approximately  correct  esti- 
mate of  the  essential  male.  The  average  man  of  her  own 
age  was  a  child  beside  her  in  "worldly  wisdom" — women 
frequently  developing  far  more  quickly  than  the  other  sex 
in  such  things — it  was  her  more  intellectual  faculties  that 
were,  as  yet,  disproportionately  backward. 

For  a  few  moments,  standing  there  in  the  loneliness 
of  the  winter  woods,  she  had  looked  at  him  through  dif- 
ferent eyes,  and  the  desire  to  love  her  mate  had  flickered 
up  in  her  like  the  birth  of  flame.  Could  she  love  him? 
Helen  felt  that  she  had  answered  the  question  when  she 
had  asked  it.  No  man  had  ever  aroused  her  love:  if  she 
met  such  an  one,  she  knew  instinctively  that  her  strength 
would  be  her  weakness.  There  would  be  no  asking  ques- 
tions then.  She  might  not — probably  would  not — ever 
meet  him.  Therefore  she  put  all  thoughts  of  such  love 
away  from  her;  and,  smiling  inwardly,  enjoyed  the  luxury 
of  despising  herself  even  while  she  smiled. 

They  had  reached  the  far  side  of  the  common,  where 
a  sandy  road  crosses  a  little  stone  bridge,  to  wind  round 
into  the  Portsmouth  Road  at  Kingston  Vale.  Along 
Beverley  Brook  the  flat  strip  of  grass  below  the  hillsides 
stretched  for  nearly  a  mile — unbroken  save  by  a  ditch  or 
two.  They  turned  to  the  left,  James  with  the  reins  over 
his  arm,  and  Thracian  Sea  following  like  a  dog.  They 
wandered  on  beside  the  stream  to  the  far  end  of  the  com- 
mon, where  a  plank  bridge  continues  the  footpath  across 
the  stream  into  the  meadows  below  Coombe  Wood. 
Throwing  the  reins  over  the  horse's  neck  he  let  him 
graze;  and  then  joined  his  companion,  who  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  bridge  watching  the  hurrying  dirty- 
colored  spate  of  recent  rains. 

The  place  was  absolutely  solitary  save  for  themselves, 
and,  for  a  moment,  James  Burkett  saw  another  picture 
with  a  background  of  winter  woods  in  which  another  and 


i38  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

very  different  girl  had  played  her  part  in  his  life  and 
passed.  Helen  raised  her  eyes  at  that  moment,  and  saw 
the  curious  look  in  his.  He  had  the  long  sight  of  the 
countryman:  the  narrower  horizons  of  the  town  dweller 
had  not  yet  stunted  his  gaze.  He  had  forgotten  her  for 
the  moment,  and  his  thoughts  had  traveled  past  her  far 
into  the  west,  where  Midford  Holt  held  the  secret  of  his 
first  love.  He  had  loved  Margaret,  somehow, — quite 
in  a  different  way,  of  course,  from  Helen — but  he  had 
most  certainly  loved  his  little  mistress  of  the  wildwood. 

She  saw  another  woman  in  his  eyes,  as  they  caught 
the  yellow  light  in  the  sky  above  Coombe  Warren.  She 
knew  that  his  sudden  fit  of  abstraction  must  be  caused  by 
the  influence  of  another:  her  own  proximity  to  him  and 
the  loneliness  of  their  surroundings  had  sufficed  to  hold 
his  thoughts  in  a  web  from  which  they  had  not  attempted 
to  escape  otherwise. 

Instinctively  she  remembered  the  girl  she  had  seen 
him  with  that  night  near  the  station.  A  woman  of  his, 
of  course.  Well,  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from  her  as  a 
rival!  only  .  .  .  She  was  surprised  at  a  fit  of  jealousy 
that  was  but  the  writing  on  the  wall  of  her  womanhood. 
To  be  jealous  of  a  girl  who  was  obviously  not  on  the 
same  plane  as  herself,  and,  therefore,  a  woman  outside 
of  comparisons !  To  be  jealous  of  her  for  the  love  of  the 
man  beside  her?  Did  she  really  value  James  Burkett's 
love? 

"A  penny  for  them  I"  she  said  suddenly — the  result  of 
her  reflections. 

He  started  slightly.  "Eh?  ...  Ah?  ...  Yes! 
Oh,  /  don't  know !  Lots  of  things." 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  and,  jerking  the  match  into  the 
water,  watched  it  dart  away  down  stream  under  the 
bridge.  Her  voice  had  broken  the  spell;  and  his  nature 
clamored  for  her  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  things. 

He  loved  Helen.  There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  Mar- 
garet? Oh,  Margaret — he  was  very  sorry  for  Margaret 
— now.  He  would  speak  to  Helen.  It  was  a  magnifi- 
cent opportunity.  He  felt  a  strange  nervousness,  usually 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  139 

foreign  to  him ;  and  puffed  at  the  cigarette  furiously.  She 
was  very  close  to  him — leaning  with  her  elbows  on  the 
high  rail  of  the  bridge,  and  looking  up  at  him  from  time 
to  time. 

"I  love  you  I"  he  said,  and  stared  at  the  turbid  water 
below. 

She  did  not  answer ;  and  he  turned  and  looked  at  her. 
Her  face  was  slightly  flushed. 

"Helen,  I  love  you!"  he  repeated,  and  his  voice 
seemed  thick  like  the  stream.  "Is  there  any  hope  for 
me?" 

"I  thought  your  affections  were  otherwise  engaged." 

He  was  taken  unawares,  and  thought  of  Margaret: 
flushing,  half  with  shame  and  half  with  annoyance. 

His  face  was  an  open  book  to  her,  in  which  she  read 
his  own  share  in  a  guilty  intrigue  with  the  girl  she  had 
seen  him  talking  to  that  evening.  But  there  was  other 
information  which  she  wanted  for  sufficient  and  varied 
reasons.  Therefore,  before  he  could  think  of  a  reply,  she 
added:  "Miss  Price  is  a  great  friend  of  your  family,  is 
she  not?" 

Her  dark  eyes  had  something  like  a  smile  in  them 
as  they  saw  the  look  of  relief  that  swept  over  his  face 
as  he  replied :  "Oh,  yes,  but  she's  nothing  to  me — only  a 
friend!"  It  was  of  Phoebe  that  Helen  had  been  think- 
ing, of  course ! 

Now  Helen  had  no  fear  of  Miss  Price  upon  anything 
like  equal  terms.  For  aught  she  knew  to  the  contrary, 
however,  the  said  Miss  Price  might  be  the  chosen  elect 
of  her  lover's  family,  in  which  case  the  forces  against  her 
would  be  considerable.  She  turned  her  head  from  him 
slightly,  and  did  not  reply. 

"Only  a  friend,  Helen!"  He  laughed  lightly.  "You 
didn't  suppose  there  was  anything  between  us,  did  you?" 

Helen  did  not,  but  she  answered  rather  coldly:  "I 
had  an  idea  there  might  be." 

"No  fear!  .  .  .  Oh,  damn  Miss  Price!" 

There  was  certainly  a  smile  in  the  dark  eyes  now,  but 
they  were  turned  from  him;  she  laughed,  but  inwardly, 


140  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

and  no  sound  came  from  her  lips.  Poor  Miss  Price  1  Her 
love  for  James  Burkett  would  be  a  thing  he  would  un- 
doubtedly use  against  her  in  the  future ! 

She  remained  a  moment  thinking;  then  stood  up 
straight  and  faced  him.  "Do  you  think  I  could  make 
you  happy?"  she  said  gravely. 

"Don't  you  care  for  me?"  he  replied  in  an  uncom- 
fortable voice  of  tragic  possibilities. 

"I  like  you." 

"Like  me?"  His  words  were  almost  an  echo,  through 
which  his  disappointment  clamored  uncontrolled. 

The  answer  which  had  apparently  been  so  easy  to 
speak  became  an  impossibility.  For  a  fraction  of  a  sec- 
ond the  lie  hung  upon  her  lips :  her  voice  had  grown  stub- 
bornly mute  and  would  not  speak  it.  Then,  reckless  that 
she  was  risking  everything  with  him,  innate  reaction, 
suddenly  become  defiant,  said:  "I  am  sorry.  I  do  not  love 
you,  though  I  like  you  very  much."  She  would,  at  least, 
be  true  to  her  ideal  in  one  way — even  if  she  perjured  her 
soul  for  ever  afterward.  She  would  keep  her  love  for 
the  man  who  could  arouse  it.  She  must! 

He  was  silent — smoking  fiercely;  and  thought  again 
of  Margaret.  If  he'd  ever  loved  Margaret  at  all  it  was 
a  stone  certainty  that  he  loved  the  woman  beside  him 
now !  He  was  always  thinking  about  her — dreaming  about 
her.  This  was  love  right  enough !  He,  too,  grew  reck- 
less— the  primordial  mercury  slipping  faster  and  faster 
through  his  blood.  The  light  was  going,  and  already 
the  stream  and  its  banks  were  dusky — the  swirl  of  the 
water  against  the  timbers  and  the  stones  sounding  in 
unison  with  the  riot  in  his  veins  and  pulses  beating  fast. 

Outlined  against  the  patch  of  light  that  still  stained 
the  western  sky  and  projected  itself  upon  the  lower  end 
of  the  field  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook,  she  was  stand- 
ing with  her  face  in  shadow;  her  eyes  full  of  a  something 
he  could  not  understand. 

"Will  you  marry  me,  Helen?" 

"Would  you  have  me  without  my  love?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  bit;  then,  his  desire  sweeping 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  141 

aside  the  restraining  hands  of  prudence,  he  blurted  out,  in 
accents  that  ran  through  the  whole  gamut  of  emotions 
from  the  aggressive  to  the  pleading:  "Yes!  I  would! 
You  might  love  me  afterward!  Helen?  Will  you?" 

His  arm  crept  out  to  her  and  drew  her  to  him.  She 
did  not  resist — suppressing  an  incipient  rebellion  within 
her  at  his  touch. 

"Will  you?"  His  face  was  close  to  hers — a  caress  in 
his  voice  and  eyes. 

"Yes!" 

He  kissed  her  once,  holding  her  to  him  passionately. 

With  his  arms  round  her,  Helen  wondered  if  she 
would  ever  love  him.  Then,  half  angry  with  herself, 
suddenly  she  returned  his  kiss. 

He  considered  it  a  hopeful  sign  for  the  future. 

If  she  discovered  in  his  arms  misgivings  which  had 
previously  been  unknown  to  her,  she  surmised  them  as 
but  the  result  of  a  new  experience.  As  yet  too  indifferent 
to  the  physical  influence  of  their  passion  to  be  readily  sus- 
ceptible herself,  she  had  kept  her  former  lovers  at  a  dis- 
tance, not  from  any  respect  for  the  Proprieties,  but  from 
mere  physical  disinclination  to  tenderness  with  men.  He 
was  the  first  man  who  had  held  her  in  his  arms,  and  she 
submitted  to  a  necessity  involved  in  her  decision  to  become 
his  wife.  She  did  ro  with  as  good  a  grace  as  possible — 
an  emotion  of  self-pity  being  followed  by  a  vague  con- 
tempt of  herself  for  such  a  feeling.  To  be  too  distant 
with  a  man  of  his  type  would  be  to  run  the  risk  of  losing 
him  altogether,  for  fear  of  offending  her  own  suscep- 
tibilities. Like  a  good  general,  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
expose  herself  to  attack  when  she  deemed  it  expedient. 

She  had  responded  to  her  lover  with  as  much  spon- 
taneity as  she  could  assume,  and  he,  being  a  man,  had  con- 
ceived modesty  as  the  restraining  cause.  For  a  moment 
he  contrasted  her  comparative  coldness  with  the  abandon- 
ment of  Margaret's  love,  and  the  latter  became  some- 
thing bordering  on  that  of  an  immodest  woman. 

As  they  walked  slowly  back  through  the  twilight 
woods  James  Burkett  saw,  in  fancy,  his  late  mistress 


i42  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

standing  there  among  the  shadows.  Remorse  for  his 
thoughts  about  her  came  to  him,  bringing  with  it  an  un- 
easiness which  he  could  not  account  for,  save  that  it  had 
its  origin  in  the  girl  whose  arm  was  at  that  moment  within 
his  own. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THRACIAN  SEA  DOES  A  GOOD  GALLOP 

THE  following  afternoon  he  put  his  idea  into  practice, 
and,  with  his  sister's  saddle  on  Sunlight,  trotted  round 
on  Thracian  Sea  with  the  cob  to  "Cloudeshill." 

Mrs.  Darell,  nervously,  if  half  playfully,  admonittve, 
received  him;  and  presently  Helen  appeared  in  her  rid- 
ing habit. 

Adjusting  one  or  two  details  of  length,  etc.,  to  her 
liking  occupied  a  few  minutes;  Mrs.  Darell  looking  on 
critically,  with  an  affectionate  regard  for  both  in  her  re- 
marks from  time  to  time.  Less  intellectual  than  her 
daughter,  she  was  half  in  love  with  the  young  man  her- 
self. 

Helen  Darell  was  a  fine  horsewoman:  there  was 
beauty  in  the  way  she  sat  her  horse ;  in  the  poise  of  her 
beautiful  figure, — her  hands  with  the  reins  in  them  were 
beautiful  in  a  double  sense.  She  had  established  a  per- 
fect understanding  between  herself  and  her  mount  before 
they  had  reached  the  end  of  Glastonbury  Road;  and  Sun- 
light— with  three  stone  less  on  his  back  than  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  carry  lately — needed  no  bidding  when  he 
felt  the  turf  beneath  him.  He  jumped  away  from  the 
blood  horse,  and  scuttled  off  as  fast  as  his  legs  would  take 
him  toward  the  distant  Windmill — Helen  letting  him  do 
all  he  knew  to  keep  in  front. 

James  had  held  Thracian  Sea  back  a  bit  when  he  went 
after  the  cob — content  to  admire  the  woman  he  loved  as 
she  galloped  in  front.  Then,  pulling  out  a  little,  he  sent 
the  thoroughbred  up  to  her  and,  drunk  with  the  desire  of 
galloping,  the  two  raced  together  side  by  side — the  pull 


i44  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

in  the  weights  enabling  Sunlight  to  make  something  of 
a  show  against  his  redoubtable  opponent.  James  shouted 
with  laughter  at  the  cob's  desperate  efforts  to  keep  with 
him,  and  legs  going  like  lightning  as  they  tore  along. 

"He's  making  yours  gallop!"  she  cried  in  laughing 
derision. 

For  answer,  James  let  Thracian  Sea  out;  and  his  com- 
panion, after  a  vain  recourse  to  her  whip  for  a  few 
strides,  gave  up. 

All  horses  gallop  fast  past  trees,  but  the  way  Thracian 
Sea,  with  his  big  weight,  went  away  from  her  astonished 
her  so  much  that  her  longing  to  have  a  ride  on  him  be- 
came an  inordinate  desire — an  imperative  thing. 

Her  calmness  had  gone  when  she  came  up  to  him 
where  he  waited  for  her  at  the  end  of  the  gallop.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  her  habitual  reserve  swept  away  in 
that  rush  through  the  glorious  air  that  streamed  over 
and  around  them  from  out  of  the  west.  The  sun  was 
shining  brightly  in  a  pale  blue  sky,  across  which,  from 
about  the  afternoon  sun,  were  blown  white  clouds  edged 
with  gold.  Helen  looked  the  personification  of  Beauti- 
ful Womanhood  as  she  sat  laughing,  getting  her  breath, 
and  calling  Thracian  Sea  names  of  admiration  and  en- 
dearment. 

"He  is  an  old  darling!  I  love  him!"  she  cried,  as  she 
brought  Sunlight  close  up  to  him. 

"Love  me,  love  my  horse !"  he  said,  grinning. 

She  made  him  a  little  bow,  and  laughed,  but  regis- 
tered a  vow  to  try  and  love  the  horse  for  the  sake  of 
the  rider,  and  not  the  rider  for  the  sake  of  the  horse. 

"Do  let  me,  Jim!"  she  said,  pleading. 

"Let  you  what,  dear?     I'd  let  you  anything!" 

"Let  me  have  a  ride  on  him!" 

He  smiled  at  the  eagerness  in  her  voice  and  eyes. 
"All  right!  We'll  go  over  into  Richmond  Park,  and 
change  there,"  he  said.  "You  can  send  him  a  mile  there 
at  his  best  pace,  if  you  like !" 

As  they  rode,  chatting  and  laughing  gaily,  out  of  the 
woods  into  the  sandy  road  that  crosses  Beverley  Brook, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  145 

they  came  suddenly  upon  his  sister  and  her  crony,  Phoebe 
Price.  James  raised  his  hat,  flushing  slightly  as  he  did 
so ;  and  Helen  bowed,  not  very  graciously. 

The  two  girls  returned  their  salutations  with  ill-con- 
cealed disgust — Phoebe's  face  striving  to  assume  an  un- 
concern that  was  almost  pitiful  to  witness.  Sybil's  grew 
scarlet  as  she  suddenly  remembered  that  it  was  her — 
Sybil's — saddle  that  was  carrying  the  detestable  creature. 
They  had  heard  the  riders'  voices,  and,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, were  prepared  for  the  rencontre,  but  the  loathing 
which  filled  the  two  young  ladies'  bosoms  was  too  strong 
to  be  entirely  concealed. 

"It's  infatuation,  dear,  nothing  more  or  less!"  said 
Sybil  after  the  riders  had  passed. 

Phoebe  replied,  rather  weakly,  that  she  supposed  it 
was.  It  is  curious  that  it  is  always  in  such  terms  that 
women  describe  these  sort  of  things  to  each  other  under 
similar  conditions. 

There  was  no  trace  of  weakness  in  Miss  Price's  voice 
at  her  next  remark — an  emphatic  opinion  that  the  cause 
of  such  infatuation  used  "pads" ;  an  opinion  shared  by  her 
friend,  and  which,  apparently,  afforded  both  young  ladies' 
feelings  considerable  relief,  as  they  reverted  to  it  on  more 
than  one  occasion  during  the  remainder  of  their  walk. 

Said  James  to  his  companion  when  they  were  out  of 
hearing:  "They're  plotting  mischief,  depend  upon  it! 
They  wouldn't  have  trudged  all  this  way  unless  they  were 
up  to  something — it'd  knock  'em  up !  Spying  on  us,  I'll 
wager — the  artful  devils!" 

She  replied  with  well-feigned  regret:  "I'm  afraid  I 
cannot  be  counted  among  your  sister's  friends."  She 
would  not  trust  herself  to  speak  of  the  other  girl.  With 
the  certainty  of  feminine  conviction,  she  knew — as  only 
women  do  know — that  Miss  Price  understood  her  mo- 
tives in  her  relations  with  the  man  beside  her.  Undoubt- 
edly must  Miss  Price  be  considered  an  enemy. 

They  turned  in  at  the  Robin  Hood  gate;  and,  in  an 
unfrequented  part  of  the  park,  the  exchange  of  saddles 
was  effected  without  much  trouble.  If  the  "fit"  left  some- 


i46  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

thing  to  be  desired  from  Thracian  Sea's  point  of  view,  his 
new  rider  had  no  difficulty  with  him. 

She  was  soon  half  a  mile  away,  on  a  bit  of  beauti- 
fully level  going,  slamming  the  horse  along  at  top  speed. 

James  remained  seated  on  a  fallen  tree  where  she 
had  left  him,  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  delights  of  to- 
bacco, and  dreams  in  which  the  distant  horse  and  rider 
were  the  most  prominent  figures.  He  followed  them  with 
his  eyes  until  a  shoulder  of  the  hill,  on  which  they  had 
dismounted,  hid  them  from  his  sight.  Then  he  forgot 
even  Thracian  Sea,  and  yielded  unreservedly  to  the  mys- 
terious madness  of  Love.  If  Margaret  strayed  anywhere 
into  the  pictures  of  the  past  and  future  that  his  mind  was 
at  work  upon,  her  intrusion  was  only  momentary,  and  the 
memory  of  the  swish  of  the  other  woman's  skirts  would 
brush  it  out. 

He  was  certainly  not  a  poet,  but  he  wisely  refrained 
from  verse.  His  prose  was  limited;  and  his  love — or  he 
thought  it  was — too  expansive  for  words.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  found  considerable  mental  effort  necessary  to 
maintain  a  conversation  with  an  educated  woman,  save 
on  such  topics  as  sport;  and  mental  effort  was  a  thing  for 
which  he  had  a  great  dislike. 

"By  God!  I'll  marry  her  first  chance  I  get  I"  he  said 
aloud.  "I  must!" 

Meanwhile,  Helen  forgot  everything  but  her  love — 
for  Thracian  Sea.  As  she  felt  his  great  sweeping  stride 
quickening  under  her  she  leaned  forward,  patting  his 
neck,  and  calling  lovingly  to  the  horse  with  a  fondness 
strangely  unlike  her  voice's  usual  level  tones.  He  an- 
swered readily,  seeming,  through  some  subtle  bond  of 
sympathy  with  his  rider,  to  know  that  he  was  expected 
to  do  his  best.  The  beautiful  hands  crept  a  little  further 
forward;  her  dark  hair  blew  out  a  little  in  the  sunshine — 
they  were  flying  now! — and  Helen  could  have  shouted 
with  the  joy  or  it  all,  a  joy  she  had  been  a  stranger  to 
for  years.  They  swept  round  the  corner  of  the  hill,  and 
on  for  another  half  mile,  and  still  the  staying  blood  of 
the  famous  "Cup"  horse  and  greatest  sire  of  modem 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  147 

times  maintained  the  break-neck  speed  with  machine-like 
regularity.  Then  she  dropped  her  hands,  and  he  slowed 
down  obediently  into  a  trot. 

She  walked  him  about  for  five  minutes  under  some 
magnificent  oaks,  putting  up  an  old  stag  who  moved 
slowly  and  majestically  away. 

The  excitement  of  her  gallop  over  the  waking  earth 
had  quickened  her  senses  strangely.  The  trees  with  their 
great  black  knees  and  arms ;  the  freshness  of  the  youthful 
year;  the  loneliness  of  the  spot;  all  these  helped  her 
paganward. 

If  only  James  had  that  saving  grace  of  instincts  which 
idealize  even  brutality,  for  a  woman,  in  him !  If  there 
be  a  malady  of  The  Ideal,  certainly  there  is  a  corre- 
sponding asthenia  of  The  Practical,  a  sort  of  debility  of 
common  sense. 

Once  he  possessed  her,  once  she  had  borne  him  chil- 
dren; and  ...  he  would  grow  fat  under  a  white  waist- 
coat, and  settle  down  into  a  thorough-going  methodical 
alleviation  of  his  appetites  and  requirements,  into  a  well- 
intentioned,  bourgeois  respect  for  his  wife,  a  deference 
to  her  before  strangers,  a  yawning  toleration  of  her 
company  by  their  own  fireside.  The  wild  was  still  in  his 
blood,  but  the  "methodism"  of  the  shop  had  corrected  its 
strangeness,  its  beauty,  out  of  existence,  and  left  a  man 
only  ingloriously  drunk  at  times  with  physical  atavisms — 
a  pagan  who  had  forgotten  their  wonder  while  still  pro- 
pitiating his  gods.  There,  with  the  sap  rising,  the  buds 
beginning,  about  her,  a  great  longing  for  love  touched 
her  sense  and  spirit.  She  sat  still  a  whole  minute,  star- 
ing at  the  brown  earth  and  the  green,  while  a  thrush 
over  her  head  filled  the  place  with  his  passionate  pulse 
of  song. 

Then,  "Now,  Thracian  Sea,  take  me  to  your  master — 
and  mine !"  she  said,  with  a  laugh,  and  put  the  horse  into 
a  canter  for  a  few  hundred  yards.  Before  reaching  the 
turn  she  called  to  him  again,  and  again  he  responded  gal- 
lantly— thoroughly  warmed  up  to  his  work.  As  they 
rounded  the  hill,  keeping  on  the  level  going  at  the  foot, 


i48  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

she  commenced  to  ride  him  hard  with  her  hands,  and,  in 
another  minute,  was  pulling  up  beside  her  lover. 

"By  Gad,  girl,  you  can  ride!"  he  said  as  he  assisted 
her  to  dismount — holding  her  in  his  arms  a  moment  and 
kissing  her  on  the  mouth  ere  he  released  her.  "It's  all 
right,  dear,  there  wasn't  a  soul  in  sight!"  he  added  apolo- 
getically. "I  couldn't  help  it!" 

The  flush  in  her  cheeks  had  deepened  and  spread  to 
her  forehead,  that  was  all.  She  did  not  reply  but  stood 
gazing  at  the  steaming  Thracian  Sea,  whose  large  dark 
eyes  were  looking  intelligently,  if  somewhat  excitedly,  into 
her  own. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

PLANE  TREE  AVENUE,  STREATHAM,  S.W. 

I  HAVE  said  that  Mrs.  Rush  had  a  heart  of  gold.  She 
possessed  many  admirable  qualities;  she  also  possessed 
her  full  share  of  feminine  obstinacy. 

"Good-bye,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Margaret — giving 
the  girl  a  motherly  kiss,  and  feeling  genuinely  sorry  at  los- 
ing her  new  lodger,  from  motives  other  than  those  con- 
nected with  the  question  of  rent. 

Margaret  waved  her  hand  as  she  turned  round  at 
the  gate,  and  went  off  to  the  station  with  a  queer  sensa- 
tion in  her  throat  at  the  good  woman's  parting  words: 
"Don't  forget  to  come  an  'ave  a  cup  o'  tea  on  Sunday, 
mind!" 

"There's  something!"  said  Mrs.  Rush  emphatically 
to  her  husband  as  she  closed  the  door. 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "Tis  a  good  honest 
lass  as  ever  was." 

"I've  said  it,  and  I  say  it  again,  and  if  I  was  to  die  to- 
morrow I'd  say  it!  There's  something!"  she  repeated. 
"Mark  me  words,  Joe !  You  may  laugh,  but  dreams  are 
not  sent  for  nowt!  That  clear  it  was  too!"  she  went  on. 
"It  woke  me  up  with  me  'eart  goin  ever  so.  The  flames 
was  a  shootin  up  something  hawful!  an  all  the  people 
runnin — not  arf  they  wasn't  a  mob !" 

He  went  back  to  his  geraniums ;  and  his  wife  remained 
standing,  lost  in  thought:  her  mind  turning  over  the  vari- 
ous possible  inferences  to  be  drawn  from  the  terrific 
vision  that  sleep  had  vouchsafed  unto  her,  which  she  had 
immediately  connected  with  Margaret,  upon  the  entry  of 
that  young  woman  into  her  scheme  of  things. 
149 


150  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

The  red-haired  girl  had  gone  her  way;  and  Mar- 
garet, upon  reaching  her  new  abode,  was  greeted  with 
the  acidulated  smile  of  Mrs.  Ghoole  herself. 

She  went  through  into  the  kitchen  with  her  bag  and 
parcels;  and  her  mistress  began  to  instruct  her  in  her  new 
duties,  after,  first  of  all,  venting  her  spleen  upon  her  last 
servant — whose  insolence  had  been  only  exceeded  by  her 
dirtiness.  For  evidence  of  the  latter  vice,  Mrs.  Ghoole 
waved  her  hand  in  silent  disgust  toward  the  dresser,  and 
then,  turning  to  the  fireplace,  swept  an  emphatic  finger 
along  the  top  of  the  mantelshelf,  and  held  it  out  indig- 
nantly to  Margaret. 

The  girl  mentally  contrasted  the  kitchen  with  her 
aunt's,  and  shuddered.  She  would  soon  effect  an  altera- 
tion, but  .  .  .  the  memory  of  her  cottage  home — home 
no  longer  now — rushed  back  upon  her,  and  she  forgot 
Mrs.  Ghoole  and  everything  for  the  moment  as  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

Fortunately  Mrs.  Ghoole  had  left  her  to  investigate 
further,  and  her  voice  sounded  from  the  scullery:  "Come 
here,  Mrs.  Young!" 

The  name  awakened  Margaret  from  her  sorrows  to 
the  necessities  of  the  moment,  and,  brushing  her  eyes  has- 
tily, she  obeyed. 

"Come  and  look  at  this!  Did  you  ever  see  anything 
so  disgraceful!"  and  Mrs.  Ghoole  pointed  with  a  tragic 
air  at  the  gas  stove,  and  from  the  gas  stove  to  the  sink, 
and  from  the  sink  to  the  copper,  half  hidden  under  a  heap 
of  bones,  potato  parings,  tea  and  cabbage  leaves — the 
mess  surmounted  by  a  draggled-looking  blue  straw  hat 
with  a  green  ribbon,  discarded  by  its  late  owner  as  unfit 
for  further  service.  Mrs.  Ghoole  lifted  it  gingerly  by  the 
brim  and  dropped  it  again,  as  if  in  fear  of  some  contami- 
nation that  it  had  inherited  from  its  erstwhile  wearer — a 
fear,  perhaps,  not  altogether  groundless. 

Margaret's  feelings,  as  Mrs.  Ghoole  showed  her  her 
bedroom,  were  harrowed  to  a  degree,  but  she  noticed  that 
the  wall-paper  and  ceiling  were  new  and  clean,  and  con- 
cluded that  the  bulk  of  the  dirt  was  of  recent  origin. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  151 

Plucking  up  her  courage,  she  flung  the  bed  open — Mrs. 
Ghoole  watching  her  intently  as  she  did  so. 

Apparently  what  she  saw  in  the  girl's  face  determined 
the  advisability  of  conciliatory  measures,  for  she  said  hur- 
riedly: "I  will  get  out  the  clean  sheets  and  blankets,  Mrs. 
Young,  if  you  will  come  down  stairs  a  minute." 

The  mere  instinct  of  personal  cleanliness,  which  had 
grown  up  with  her  from  the  days  when  a  dirty  pinafore 
had  become  something  of  which  to  be  ashamed,  subordi- 
nated all  other  emotions  for  a  day  or  two,  and  she  was 
too  tired  when  she  went  to  bed  to  think  or  dream. 

Mrs.  Ghoole,  recognizing  the  motives  that  prompted 
the  girl,  left  her  to  herself,  and  felt  extremely  thankful, 
and  even  kindly  disposed  toward  her  at  times. 

A  tea  party  revealed  her  treasure  to  the  elite  of  Mrs. 
Ghoole's  acquaintances. 

Finding  herself  the  cynosure  of  eyes  whose  friendli- 
ness she  felt  was  only  a  disguise,  Margaret,  for  the  first 
time,  realized  to  the  full  the  depressing  sense  of  sailing 
under  false  colors. 

As  she  waited  at  tea — the  subject  from  time  to  time 
of  those  condescending  "kindnesses"  which  are  prompted 
by  vulgar  curiosity — her  gentle  ingenuous  soul  shrank 
from  becoming  the  discussion  of  such  people  as  these. 
Instinctively  she  felt  that  her  own  guilty  secret,  were  it 
known  to  them,  would  inspire  them  with  a  cruel  and  fiend- 
ish pleasure;  and  it  was  among  their  kind  that  her  future 
life  would  pass!  In  the  passage  and  kitchen  when  she 
left  the  room,  she  had  recourse  to  her  handkerchief  freely 
— desperately  struggling  with  the  sobs  that  nearly  choked 
her  once  or  twice.  She  regretted  her  fall  bitterly — yes, 
bitterly  she  regretted  it  now,  and  longed  for  her  old  inno- 
cent days  in  dear  old  Midford  Holt. 

A  sense  of  the  irrevocable  burden  that  Mother  Na- 
ture has  laid  upon  her  daughters  crushed  her,  deaden- 
ing her  feelings,  and,  for  a  moment,  a  chill  dread  of  Life 
struck  into  her  brave  heart  and  stopped  her  tears.  It 
would  be  so  easy  to  go  out  of  it  all — into  the  quiet  sleep 


1 52  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

where  there  is  no  more  sin  or  shame  or  sorrow  for  girls, 
only  an  infinite  rest.  God  would  forgive  her,  surely,  she 
was  truly  repentant !  .  .  . 

The  next  minute  she  was  herself  again,  and  her  gray 
eyes  shone  with  the  light  of  returning  courage — with  a 
light  of  battle  in  them  for  that  other  helpless  life  within 
her,  which,  unknown  to  herself,  invested  her  quiet  beauty 
with  a  transcendent  glory  of  its  own.  As  she  moved 
about  the  kitchen  she  crooned  softly  to  herself  as  she  had 
crooned  over  her  old  one-legged  doll  at  home  years  ago, 
when  she  had  been  a  little  maid. 

When  she  went  into  the  room,  in  answer  to  the  bell, 
her  face  had  on  it  an  unconscious  pride  that  made  more 
than  one  of  the  amiable  ladies  present  long  "to  teach  her 
her  place,"  but  they  had  lost  all  power  to  hurt  her  now. 
When  Miss  Elizabeth  Grout  remarked  in  a  carefully  se- 
lected voice,  ostensibly  directed  at  the  fireplace,  that  ser- 
vants were  becoming  more  and  more  unbearable  every 
day,  her  words  failed  even  to  attract  Margaret's  atten- 
tion. 

"Have  you  noticed  that  person  next  door  lately,  Mrs. 
Ghoole?"  asked  a  little  woman  who  apparently  suffered 
from  incipient  frost-bite,  the  malady  extending  to  her 
voice. 

"I  never  notice  her,  Miss  Elaine !"  replied  her  hostess 
in  tones  of  almost  equal  chilliness.  "I  think  that  is  the 
best  way  to  treat  those  sort  of  people?"  The  meeting 
became  sibilant  with  many  assents. 

Miss  Elaine  skillfully  arrested  the  development  of  a 
globule  forming  at  the  end  of  her  nose.  Then  she  went 
on:  "Neither  do  I,  as  a  rule,  of  course,  only  .  .  ."  and 
she  relapsed  into  a  frigid  silence  again. 

"Sealskin  jackets,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Ghoole  with  a 
sniff.  "I  saw  it  come.  From  The  Polar  Co.,  Piccadilly 
Circus.  Three  weeks  ago." 

"Where  she  came  from  herself,  no  doubt,  originally," 
said  another  lady.  "Outside  I  mean,  of  course!"  she 
added,  sniggering.  Whereat  all  her  hearers  sniggered 
too,  with  the  exception  of  Miss  Grout,  who  considered 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  153 

such  exhibitions  of  mirth  unladylike,  and  who  said: 
"Now,  really,  Mrs.  Matthews,  don't  let  us  be  unchari- 
table. Though  I  must  say  I  don't  think  such  people  as 
her  ought  to  be  allowed  in  church" 

"Late  every  Sunday  since  she's  had  it,  of  course  1"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Ghoole. 

"Oh,  of  course!"  echoed  through  the  room  in  a  gen- 
eral chorus  of  replies. 

"Supposed  to  be  his  wife,  isn't  she,  Mrs.  Ghoole?" 

"Supposed  to  be!"  and  the  lady  addressed  looked 
round,  and  smiled  with  an  air  of  superior  wisdom. 

"But  we  don't  know  anything,"  said  Miss  Grout.  "I 
don't  like  to  think  evil  of  anyone,  only  .  .  .  Such  people 
are  notoriously  lax,  I'm  afraid!" 

"What  can  you  expect,  my  dear!  The  man  is  a  low 
betting  man — a  bookmaker!"  put  in  Mrs.  Higgle,  whose 
husband  was  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  or,  rather,  just  out- 
side it. 

"I  wonder  they  allow  it!  It's  a  dishonest  way  of  get- 
ting a  living,"  replied  Mrs.  Ghoole. 

"It  is,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Higgle.  "Poor  Mrs. 
Thatcher,  at  number  thirty-seven,  was  telling  me  that 
her  husband  had  owed  him  five  pounds  for  ever  so  long!" 

"And  likely  to  owe  it,  /  should  say T'  interrupted  Miss 
Elaine.  "I  saw  a  man  mending  their  mat  in  the  street 
the  other  day,  and  it  came  right  in  half  in  his  hands!  It 
all  goes  in  drink!"  she  added — her  voice  and  general  ap- 
pearance conveying  an  impression  of  creaking  ice  under 
a  winter's  moon. 

"How  dreadful!  Poor  Mrs.  Thatcher!  She  seemed 
such  a  nice,  genteel  little  woman  too!  It's  such  a  pity! 
I  wouldn't  believe  it  myself,  though,  of  course,  I'd  heard 
things,"  said  Mrs.  Matthews.  "But  one  day  I  was  in 
Perkinses  Stores  and  I  heard  her  order  it!  Three  bot- 
tles! She  colored  up  ever  so  when  she  saw  me.  She  said 
it  was  her  heart,  afterward." 

"Her  kidneys — she  told  me"  creaked  Miss  Blaine. 
"She  has  it  in  regularly.  I  felt  there  was  something  funny, 
and  I  watched!  And  one  day  Perkinses  man  dropped  the 


i54  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

basket  with  the  groceries  in,  and  it  was  underneath  in 
the  straw!  The  stuff  ran  all  over  the  doorstep!"  Miss 
Elaine  looked  round  with  a  deprecatory  smile  through 
which  her  own  enjoyment  glittered  like  an  icicle. 

"The  road  is  going  down  frightfully!"  said  Miss 
Grout.  "Pa  talks  of  going  to  Kensington  to  live." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  replied  Mrs.  Matthews.  "That  ac- 
counts for  it,  Miss  Grout.  Mr.  Matthews  told  me  he 
saw  him  in  the  Earl's  Court  Road,  quite  late  the  other 
night,  with  a  lady  in  a  hansom,  and  I  said  it  couldn't  be !" 

Miss  Grout  rose,  and  smiled  through  the  silence  that 
followed  with  such  an  intensity  of  spite  on  her  face  that 
Mrs.  Matthews  could  scarcely  contain  her  joy.  For 
months  past  she  had  smarted  from  a  remark  of  Miss 
Grout's  respecting  the  vulgarity  and  ugliness  of  those 
Matthews  children. 

"Good-bye,  dear  Mrs.  Ghoole!"  the  outraged  damsel 
managed  to  get  out  at  last.  "I  really  must  be  going! 
Thank  you  so  much  for  such  a  delightful  evening!" 

Miss  Elizabeth  Grout's  face  was  positively  homicidal 
as  she  crossed  the  road.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment  out- 
side her  own  gate,  then  hurried  away  to  number  thirty- 
seven,  where  the  spitefulness  in  her  eyes  seemed  to  have 
infected  her  fingers  as  she  pressed  the  bell. 

Margaret  had  escaped  to  the  kitchen,  and  sat  lost  in 
thought.  A  ring  at  the  front  door  aroused  her.  As  she 
opened  it  Master  Herbert  Ghoole,  a  youth  of  twenty, 
with  a  pasty-colored  face  and  eyes  like  a  fish,  slipped 
noiselessly  in  and  stood  looking  at  her.  He  held  up  his 
finger  and  beckoned.  As  she  went  to  him  he  reached  out 
and  seized  her.  The  suddenness  of  his  action  had  so  com- 
pletely taken  her  by  surprise  that  she  was  in  his  arms 
before  she  could  raise  a  hand  to  protect  herself.  In 
another  moment  he  would  have  kissed  her,  but  the  sound 
of  a  doorhandle  turning  made  him  let  go,  and  he  swung 
round  and  hung  up  his  hat. 

Margaret  had  vanished  when  he  ventured  to  look 
round  again.  The  girl,  with  heaving  breast  and  flaming 
cheeks,  stood  trembling  with  fear  and  rage  in  the  kitchen, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  155 

half  expecting  the  wretch  would  follow  her.  She  heard 
his  mother  speaking  to  him,  however,  and  the  two  go  back 
into  the  room.  She  sank  down  in  a  chair  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  The  door  opened  again  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  he  came  out  into  the  kitchen,  ostensibly  in- 
quiring for  his  thick  boots  as  he  entered,  grinning  and 
leering  at  her  out  of  his  muddy  eyes.  Then  he  stopped. 

She  advanced  toward  him  with  a  look  in  her  face  that 
appeared  to  astonish  the  youth. 

"Herbert  Ghoole,  if  ever  you  dare  touch  me  again 
I'll  tell  your  mother  and  leave  the  house!"  She  spoke 
quietly,  but  there  was  a  note  of  passion  ki  her  voice  that 
there  was  no  mistaking. 

He  stood  eyeing  her  sullenly.  His  mother  had  just 
been  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  the  new  slavey.  He 
knew  there  would  be  trouble  for  him  if  she  carried  out 
her  threat;  and  he  retired,  swearing  vengeance  to  him- 
self. 

Margaret  locked  her  door  carefully,  before  undress- 
ing, that  night,  and  for  long  lay  restlessly  tossing  about, 
in  spite  of  her  weariness.  The  excitement  had  unnerved 
her,  but  she  fortified  herself  at  last  with  the  assurance 
that  it  would  only  be  for  a  few  months,  and,  remember- 
ing the  consolation  that  had  brought  her  comfort  earlier 
in  the  evening,  she  smiled  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

DUSK  ON  THE  DERBY  COURSE 

SUNLIGHT  rattled  a  merry  tune  out  of  the  old  road — 
well-nigh  deserted  that  afternoon — as  he  whirled  the  dog- 
cart (in  which  were  James  Burkett  and  Helen  Darell) 
Epsomward.  At  least,  to  the  pair  of  mortals  sitting  be- 
hind him,  the  ring  of  his  hoofs  had  a  joyous  sound. 

Thracian  Sea  was  to  have  a  good  school  over  hurdles 
at  his  new  training  quarters;  and  Helen  had  assented 
eagerly  to  the  proposal  that  they  should  drive  over,  and 
see  the  horse  do  his  work. 

The  roads  round  Worcester  Park  being  more  or  less 
"up,"  they  had  taken  the  main  road  via  the  Double  Gates 
at  Merton. 

Every  gradation  of  social  life,  from  king  to  coster- 
monger,  has  passed  along  those  undulating  stretches. 
There,  every  year,  have  some  of  England's  fairest  women 
and  bravest  men  hurried  to  and  from  the  little  Surrey 
town;  there,  every  year,  the  scum  that  accumulates  in  the 
holes  and  corners  of  metropolitan  degradation  is  drawn 
southward  along  its  course  in  Derby  week,  eddying  in 
and  out  and  around  divers  pubs  en  route,  to  find  its  ob- 
scene way  at  length  to  that  Mecca  of  millions,  with  its 
classic  battleground,  Epsom  Downs.  Than  then  and 
there,  nowhere  shall  you  see  greater  social  contrasts 
side  by  side.  Before  the  days  of  motors  the  frequent 
drag,  with,  perhaps,  "Blue  Blood"  of  man  and  beast  on 
the  bench  and  in  the  traces,  moved  genially  among  crowds 
of  humble  and  indeterminate  vehicles  manned  and  horsed 
to  match.  There  flickered  in  white  lace  "unconvention- 
156 


'THRACIAN  SEA"  157 

ality"  the  rapid  legs  of  sporting  cockney  cobs;  there 
strode,  in  heroic  perspiration  and  pink  or  blue  tights,  the 
cockney  sporting  biped,  with  a  fixed  and  dreadful  expres- 
sion on  his  mottled  face,  and  a  stone  jar  or  two  perched 
dizzily  upon  his  fevered  brow. 

Fewer  and  fewer  every  year  now  are  the  drags;  the 
terrors  of  the  taxi  have  played  havoc  with  the  sporting 
tits;  the  bottle-carrying  business  has  passed  away,  as  a 
thing  more  suitable  for  suicide  than  sporting  wagers  in 
these  days  of  Speed.  The  dust  has  given  place  to  tarmac; 
the  curtained  hansom  is  an  anachronism  now;  but  the  old 
spirit  lingers  yet,  and  still  the  penny-trumpet  seller,  the 
man  with  the  fearsome  mask,  and  the  vendor  of  the  still 
more  fearsome  cigar  risk  life  and  limb  to  find  a  gener- 
ous customer  among  the  motors  that  struggle  up  the 
"George"  hill  at  Morden  coming  home.  Still  the  uncer- 
tain cornet  woos  the  morning  and  the  evening  with  mem- 
ories of  Annie  Laurie,  Mary  of  Argyle,  or  the  latest  mel- 
ody of  the  music  halls ;  still  sounds  occasionally  the  cheery 
horn,  through  suburban  streets  and  green  fields  further 
out — a  challenge  to  the  sober-minded  to  forsake  sobriety 
for  the  nonce,  or  a  lure  to  the  broken  punter  to  leave  the 
depths  of  his  despair  for  hopes  of  better  days,  when  luck 
will  change  once  more. 

You  may  have  unpleasant  recollections  of  Epsom,  of 
favorites  badly  "left";  of  "four  seconds — beaten  heads, 
in  one  day";  of  Toppings  and  Spindlers  on  the  Hill, 
whose  business  methods  compared  unfavorably  with  those 
of  the  eminent  firm  of  the  same  name  at  Flushing,  Hol- 
land. You  may  dislike  the  vulgarity  and  the  crowd ;  you 
may  object  to  the  familiarity  of  the  gentleman  whose 
stock  in  trade  consists  of  a  huge  tin,  containing  a  hetero- 
geneous compound  known  as  jellied  eels,  and  who,  appar- 
ently unimpressed  by  your  brand-new  summer  suit  and 
genuine  Panama  hat,  informs  you  with  a  most  disgust- 
ingly confidential  air:  "I  'ave  'em  as  low  as  tuppence!" 

The  indescribable  and  objectionable  odor  which  arises 
from  the  fried-fish  stalls,  everywhere  in  evidence  during 
race  week,  and  the  equally — in  print — indescribable  and 


158  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

objectionable  language  may  offend  your  sense  of  aes- 
thetics. Your  previous  respect  for  The  Cloth  may  have 
received  there  a  shock  from  which  it  has  never  properly 
recovered.  You  may  have  seen  elderly  clerical  gentle- 
men, with  shocking  levity  and  remarkable  success,  eagerly 
tempting  Dame  Fortune  in  attempts  to  find  a  mythical  fe- 
male known  as  The  Lady  from  among  three  heathen 
playing  cards  placed  upon  an  opened  umbrella,  resting, 
on  the  points  of  two  of  its  ribs,  on  the  ground  beneath 
some  ancestral  oak  or  chestnut  near  The  Durdans. 

You  may  have  a  thousand  objections  to  its  moral 
and  physical  atmosphere,  and  yet — in  your  heart  of 
hearts — you  have  a  sneaking  regard  for  the  old  place 
that  time  cannot  destroy.  You  go  there  once  or  twice  a 
year,  perhaps,  and  then  only  on  race  days.  You  like  the 
green  of  the  paddock  at  "City"  time,  when  the  larks  are 
as  thick  on  the  downs  as  the  "joints"  of  bookmakers  are 
on  the  Hill  on  the  Wednesday.  There  you  feel  you  like 
to  watch  other  things  besides  horses.  The  cloud  shadows 
sweeping  over  the  hills;  the  solitary  spire  of  Headley 
Church  up  there  against  the  sky,  behind  the  rails  and 
furzes  near  the  mile  post.  You  feel  you  would  like 
to  explore  that  far  side  of  the  course,  and  you  wander 
over  there,  away  from  the  fried  fish  and  the  language, 
and  stand  at  the  Derby  starting  gate  where  the  green 
stripe  of  the  running  track,  that  goes  up  over  the  hill  out 
of  sight,  is  all  shot  with  buttercup  gold ;  and  the  song  of 
the  lark  swells — in  a  double  sense — above  the  distant 
murmur  of  the  stands  and  Hill.  You  dream,  perhaps,  for 
the  sudden  transition  from  noisy  humanity  to  silences 
broken  only  by  wind  voices  and  the  song  of  larks  is  con- 
ducive to  dreams;  and  you  think  of  the  equine  heroes  of 
the  past — those  makers  of  turf  history,  whose  deeds  and 
misdeeds  have  so  materially  affected  the  lives  of  so  many 
humans,  from  the  throne  down  to  the  filthy  wretch  you 
have  just  passed,  lying  curled  up  in  his  rags  by  the  rails. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  Ashstead;  and  the  downs  lay 
darkling  as  the  February  twilight  crept  over  their 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  159 

rounded  shapes.  Northward  the  white  mass  of  the  grand- 
stand was  ghostly  against  the  pervading  gray.  Far  away 
to  the  south,  and  lying  like  some  great  monster  of  a  by- 
gone age  asleep  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  loomed  dimly 
the  high  hills  above  Betchworth. 

Leaving  the  trap  at  the  Downs  Hotel,  the  two  had 
walked  over  to  Henshaw's — the  trainer's — place,  and 
seen  Thracian  Sea,  with  some  stable  companions,  sent 
two  miles  over  hurdles  at  a  good  exercise  gallop.  There 
was  no  mistaking  the  horse's  aptitude  for  the  game — he 
jumped  like  an  old  hand;  and  both  the  young  people  were 
delighted.  James  decided  upon  the  "Phoenix  Maiden 
Hurdle"  at  Sandown  for  his  initial  attempt;  and,  after 
discussing  further  matters  with  Henshaw  and  saying 
good-bye  to  the  trainer,  Helen  had  expressed  a  desire  to 
walk  round  the  Derby  Course. 

They  had  reached  the  mile  post,  and  stopped — lean- 
ing on  the  rails  side  by  side.  As  they  stood  there  in  the 
dusk  the  spirit  of  the  place  appealed  strongly  to  them 
both,  and,  when  James  drew  her  to  him,  the  tenderness 
in  the  girl's  eyes  was  not  assumed.  If  she  could  learn 
to  love  him  she  should  be  happier  than  many  women,  she 
thought. 

And  so  from  Thracian  Sea  they  drifted  by  easy  stages 
upon  the  tides  of  that  other  sea  whose  waves  have  met 
over  so  many  heads  and  hearts — a  sea  of  calm  waters, 
where  lies,  for  a  favored  few,  a  peace  which  passes  all 
understanding;  tempest  torn  for  the  many,  though  the 
sun  shine  never  so  brightly  when  the  bark  of  Love  puts 
off  from  shore.  Its  depths  are  soundless;  and  charts 

are ?  Unreliable,  shall  we  say?  How  many 

couples,  even  ere  the  land  of  Single  Blessedness  is  be- 
low the  horizon,  have  longed  to  return — to  escape  from 
the  other  passenger  at  all  costs;  some  even  preferring 
drowning  to  a  continuance  of  the  voyage.  And  yet,  in 
that  pilgrimage,  undertaken  as  it  is,  and  must  be  for  quite 
a  long  time  to  come,  by  imperfect  beings,  lies  Humanity's 
greatest  institution,  so  far,  whose  justification  a  myriad 
hearts  have  echoed  when  the  sun  of  Life  goes  down  into 


160  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

the  infinite  heart  of  that  illimitable  sea.  Storms  there 
may  have  been;  silent  and  lonely  watches  of  the  night; 
mutinies  and  dangers  of  shipwreck,  averted  only  by  self- 
sacrifice  and  forgiving  love ;  yet,  with,  in  spite  of  all,  the 
man  and  the  woman  drawn  closer  to  each  other,  as  the 
end  of  the  voyage  for  them  both  draws  closer  too. 

Marriage,  apart  from  a  young  woman's  sentimental- 
ity, marriage  as  an  abstraction,  apart  from  its  personal 
side,  had  interested  Helen.  Now  that  the  personal  as- 
pect was  one  which  intruded  itself  upon  her  mental  out- 
look, she  borrowed  largely  from  the  abstract  to  reconcile 
her  contemplated  union  with  the  man  beside  her.  In 
such  speculations  she  walked  round  the  mile  and  half  of 
turf  that  is  perhaps  the  most  famous  battleground  of 
modern  times. 

Her  companion's  thoughts  were  widely  different.  To 
him  she  represented  something  to  be  gained  at  all  costs — 
one  of  the  necessities  of  life,  an  object  of  primary  im- 
portance which  no  other  woman  could  supply.  He 
scarcely  noticed  her  silence — he  felt  strangely  quiet  him- 
self— to  be  with  her  now  was  something  approaching  ec- 
stasy for  him.  He  even  began  to  understand  poets. 
Presently  he  would  have  to  come  down  to  earth,  and  dis- 
cuss ways  and  means;  but  now,  at  least,  he  could  satiate 
himself  in  the  mute  pleasure  of  being  alone  with  her,  and 
letting  love  wrap  his  soul  in  mysterious  things — even  as 
the  night  was  wrapping  the  silent  downs  in,  what  seemed 
to  him,  a  mystery  as  sympathetic  as  it  was  symbolical. 
On  the  road  home  he  would  tell  her  of  what  had  taken 
place  respecting  herself  at  his  home,  of  the  "row"  he 
had  had  with  his  sister,  and  his  plans  for  the  future.  For 
the  present — dreams ! 

When  a  young  man  reaches  this  state  it  is  only  in  hu- 
man nature  that  he  should  be  extremely  eager  to  possess 
the  creature  (more  or  less  divine)  of  such  dreams — espe- 
cially when  that  person,  in  the  flesh,  has  a  habit  of  being 
alone  in  his  society  in  "waste  and  solitary  places,"  and 
that  at  times  when  the  spirits  of  the  dusk  may  be  said  to 
invite,  beneath  the  protection  of  their  shadowy  wings,  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  161 

exchange  of  all  those  little  tendernesses  dear  to  young 
lovers  from  time  immemorial. 

He  broke  the  silence  at  last  with:  "If  Thracian  Sea 
is  anything  like  as  good  as  I  think,  I  can  win  a  thousand 
on  him  in  three  races;  and  then,  dear " 

His  words  were  but  an  introduction  for  unspoken 
things.  He  slipped  his  arm  round  her,  and  stopped  sud- 
denly, looking  tenderly  into  her  eyes. 

She  returned  his  kiss,  and  then,  infected  with  his 
optimism  as  they  walked  slowly  on,  said:  "Yes,  dear? 
And  then ?" 

"You  and  I  will  get  married!  Thracian  Sea  shall 
pay  for  the  setting  up  shop,  dear,  eh?" 

"But  suppose  Thracian  Sea  fails  in  that  important 
item?"  she  asked. 

"Oh  well,  we'll  have  to  wait  a  bit,  I  suppose!  But 
the  old  devil  won't  fail !  I  know  all  the  horses  that  he 
is  likely  to  tumble  up  against  in  the  races  I  have  put  him 
in,  and  I  tell  you,"  he  went  on  confidently,  "I  can  win 
three  off  the  reel  as  easy  as  shelling  peas,  bar  accidents !" 

"But  how  about  your  people,  dear?  They  don't 
know  me  yet,  and  they  may  object  to  me." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  James.  "The  guv'nor  would 
sooner  you  were  rich,  of  course;  but  you've  only  got  to 
show  up  in  one  of  the  firm's  art  shades,  and  you'll  knock 
him,  right  enough;  and  /'//  bring  the  mater  round.  Sis 
is  catty  rather;  she  wanted  me  to  marry  Phoebe  Price, 
but  I  spotted  her  game  in  time,"  he  went  on,  with  de- 
lightful candor. 

"Do  you  know,  Jim,  I  have  an  idea  that  your  people 
will  object  to  me,"  she  said,  her  voice  wistfully  regretful. 

"No  fear,  Helen!  That'll  be  all  right!"  He  wanted 
it  to  be  all  right,  and  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  theory 
that  if  you  wanted  a  thing  very  much  you  generally  got 
it.  Also,  he  didn't  want  to  go  into  unpleasant  details, 
yet. 

They  had  reached  the  Bell,  and  he  looked  longingly 
at  the  white  rails  fading  away  in  front.  "Perhaps  one 
day,  dear,  you  and  I  may  cheer  something  of  our  own, 


1 62  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

first  past  the  post,"  he  said  as  he  gazed  up  at  the  silent 
and  deserted  stand.  "Something  in  black  and  scarlet,  eh 
dear?" 

She  had  chosen  his  colors  for  him — black,  with 
scarlet  chevrons,  sleeves  and  cap — and  she  wondered  if 
the  enthusiasm  she  felt  at  his  words  was  the  forerunner 
of  love;  life  would  be  easy  with  James  Burkett  if  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  his  horse  winning  would  suffice  for  a 
woman's  soul.  And  yet — intellectually  he  was  her  in- 
ferior, and  always  would  be.  She  felt  he  would  never  be 
able  to  give  her,  in  such  matters,  the  sympathetic  com- 
panionship for  which  she  would  crave.  But,  if  man  was, 
in  the  main,  both  an  unfaithful  animal  and  a  selfish,  he 
was  not  without  his  good  points.  When  a  woman  de- 
liberately tried  to  marry  him  for  the  sake  of  social  ad- 
vantage, as  she  was  doing,  it  was  surely  not  too  much 
to  ask  that  she  should  exert  all  her  refining  influences  to 
reduce  his  natural  propensities  to  manageable  dimensions. 
It  was  her  duty  to  herself,  and  to  her  sex,  and  to  society, 
to  do  so — she  told  herself,  and  inwardly  vowed  that  he 
should  not  find  her  lacking  in  her  efforts  in  such  direc- 
tions. And  yet — the  woman  in  her  wanted  too  much,  ex- 
pected too  much,  she  supposed. 

James  had  stopped  at  the  winning  post,  and  was  look- 
ing back  up  the  course.  He  was  a  fine  specimen  of  a 
man  physically,  and  mentally  up  to  the  average.  She  had 
an  uneasy  feeling  that  her  own  running  for  the  Matri- 
monial Stakes  was  not  quite  straight.  She  had  her  race 
well  won,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned — half  unconsciously 
borrowing  a  metaphor  which  the  associations  of  their 
environment  suggested  to  her. 

They  had  tea;  and  then  drove  swiftly  down  the  long 
hill,  through  the  lighted  streets  of  Epsom,  and  the  strag- 
gling village  of  Ewell  beyond — out  into  the  dark 
stretches  of  road  that  lie  between  that  place  and  Morden. 
The  night  was  very  dark;  and  Helen  shivered  slightly 
as  she  wrapped  the  rug  closer  round  her. 

"Cold,  dear?"  he  asked,  as  he  leaned  nearer  to  her. 
She  was  very  quiet,  and  the  click  of  Sunlight's  hoof 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  163 

strokes  was  the  only  sound.  "What's  the  matter,  dear?" 
repeating  his  question. 

"No,  Jim.  I'm  all  right!  Thinking!  That  was  all," 
she  added,  looking  up  at  him  a  moment.  Then  she  went 
on:  "Have  you  spoken  to  your  people,  dear,  about  me?" 

He  laughed — rather  uneasily,  she  thought.  "Yes,  I 
did,  Helen.  The  other  night — after  I  got  home.  Sybil 
had  been  talking."  He  flicked  Sunlight's  shoulder  me- 
chanically; and  she  stared  at  the  trees  that  came  gliding 
through  the  rays  of  the  lamp  to  meet  them.  "And — Oh 
you  know  what  women  are!"  Sunlight  quickened  to  a 
sharp  cut,  this  time,  from  the  whip. 

"And  I  was  using  her  saddle."  Helen  completed 
his  penultimate  sentence,  and  laughed  a  peculiar  low 
laugh  of  hers. 

"Well,  if  you  were — there  was  no  need  for  her  to  be 
nasty  over  a  bally  saddle,  was  there?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily — studying  him.  Then  she 
smiled.  "There  was  every  reason,  Jim.  Your  sister  is 
a  girl.  And  I  am  a  girl,  and — and  girls  positively  hate 
each  other  for  things  like  that." 

He  burst  out  laughing;  and  she  hated  him,  but  did 
not  tell  him  so.  Instead,  she  said,  calmly  and  judicially, 
though  she  only  half  believed  it: 

"It  is  largely  men's  fault — that  sort  of  thing;  they 
have  made  us  like  it!" 

He  looked  at  her  astonished.  This  was  a  new  phase 
of  her;  also,  he  was  learning:  Helen  did  not  make  re- 
marks of  this  sort  without  weighing  her  words. 

"Tell  me,  dear,  I  am  curious  to  know.  Do  you  hate 
Sybil,  and  Phoebe,  and  all  that  mob?" 

She  hesitated.  "You  ask  me  for  my  opinion  in  confi- 
dence?" 

"Of  course,  dear!   Honor  bright!" 

"I  think  I  loathe  some  women,  most  women,  Jim." 

"Good  Lord,  girl,  whyr\ 

"You  ask  me  for  my  opinion  in  confidence?" 

He  laughed  again.  "Of  course,  dear!  Honor 
bright!" 


1 64  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"I  don't  know!' 

This  was  too  much  for  Jim,  and  Sunlight  started  for- 
ward with  a  jerk  and  squealed  angrily.  After  his  driver 
had  done  laughing  at  his  companion's  disclosures,  he 
returned  to  the  subject  with: 

"Anyhow ! — the  mater's  on  my  side  I" 

Helen  accepted  his  remark  without  comment,  and 
without  believing  it.  She  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to 
inquire  into  the  state  of  Mr.  Burkett  senior's  feelings  to- 
ward her.  She  was  busily  thinking  out  a  plan  of  cam- 
paign for  the  future. 

"The  guv'nor  has  cut  up  a  bit  because  I  have  been 
leaving  the  office  early,  lately." 

Helen  had  considerable  doubts  in  her  own  mind  re- 
specting the  value  of  Jim's  services  in  the  old-established 
firm  of  Burkett  and  Bowker.  Her  mental  pictures  of 
him  as  a  "business  man"  produced  an  effect  of  incon- 
gruity for  which  her  own  ignorance  of  trade  was  not  en- 
tirely responsible.  She  knew  his  father  by  sight,  and  had 
sufficient  knowledge  of  the  type  to  recognize  in  him  the 
successful  man  of  commerce.  When  one  day  she  had 
seen  the  two  of  the-m  together,  the  antithetic  suggestive- 
ness  with  which  the  sight  had  inspired  her  had  left  a 
permanent  impression  upon  her  mind. 

"It's  a  very  old  firm,  yours,  Jim,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Rather!  Thousands  of  years  old — that  sort  of 
thing.  It's  antiquity  makes  me  feel  like  a  bloomin' 
mummy  in  the  British  Museum!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  archly.  "Do  you  walk  about 
with  a  pen  behind  your  ear?" 

He  laughed  at  her  quizzing — struck  with  the  truth  of 
her  ideas  as  to  his  general  condition  at  the  office.  He 
found  it  difficult  to  remain  still  anywhere.  "Oh,  I'm 
pretty  busy  sometimes !  Correspondence,  travelers,  don't 
you  know?  I  shall  settle  down  all  right  after  we  are 
married.  I  shall  be  a  model  young  man  then,  quite !  Old 
Bowker's  a  shocking  old  stick.  Punctuality,  business 
habits,  and  that-sort  of  thing.  If  Thracian  Sea  wins  me 
that  thousand  I  shall  feel  more  independent,"  he  said 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  165 

rather  irrelevantly.  "I  shall  feel  more  justified  in  marry- 
ing at  once  than  if  I  had  to  ask  for  the  money,  somehow." 
The  dogcart  rocked  behind  an  ill-used  cob. 

Helen  remained  silent,  analyzing  emotions  to  which 
his  words  had  given  rise.  The  sooner  they  were  married 
the  better  was  the  result  of  her  reflections, — a  mental 
decision  rather  than  an  emotional  one. 

As  they  drove  past  Wimbledon  station,  James  saw  his 
mother  in  front. 

"There's  the  mater!  I'll  give  her  a  lift,  and  intro- 
duce you !"  he  cried,  suddenly  pulling  up  as  he  spoke. 

Mrs.  Burkett  saw  them  and  stopped. 

He  jumped  down,  and  brought  his  mother  to  Helen. 
"Drive  you  home,  mater,"  he  said — the  introduction 
over.  He  thought  he  saw  an  excellent  opportunity  for 
establishing  an  acquaintance  between  them. 

Helen  got  out  of  the  dogcart,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Bur- 
kett's  protest,  and  insisted  upon  that  lady  taking  her 
place  and  rug.  "I  will  walk  up  the  hill,  Mr.  Burkett," 
she  said  laughing — knowing  that  he  would  not  allow  her 
to  do  so;  and  matters  were  arranged  by  her  taking  the 
back  seat. 

As  the  trap  pulled  up  outside  "Cloudeshill"  the  door 
opened,  and  Mrs.  Darell,  with  a  shawl  over  her  head, 
came  down  the  path  to  the  front  gate  to  meet  them. 

"I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  your  drive!"  she  called 
out,  then  seeing  someone  else  in  the  trap  she  stopped. 

"My  mater,  Mrs.  Darell,"  he  said  as  he  helped  Helen 
down;  and,  feeling  that  her  son  wished  her  to  do  so,  Mrs. 
Burkett  assented  to  the  invitations  of  mother  and  daugh- 
ter to  go  in  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Well,  mater,  what  do  you  think  of  her?"  said  James 
as  they  drove  home. 

"I  like  her,  Jim,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Burkett  after  a 
moment's  pause,  which  to  her  son  meant  less  than  it 
would  have  done  to  the  subject  of  her  remark  had  she 
been  able  to  overhear  it. 

James  hesitated,  waiting  for  some  possible  qualifi- 


1 66  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

cations.  As  none  were  forthcoming,  he  went  on:  "Don't 
you  think  she  is  very  beautiful,  mother?" 

"Yes,  dear,  she  is  a  beautiful  girl,  and  she  seems  a 
lady." 

"A  lady!  I  should  rather  think  she  is!"  he  said, 
bridling  slightly. 

"I  asked  them  to  call — I  thought  you  wished  me  to, 
dear." 

"Yes.    Thanks,  mater.    You  were  a  brick." 

"I  hope  your  father  will  like  her." 

"Why,  don't  you  think  he  will?' 

Mrs.  Burkett  did  not  answer.  She  had  gathered 
from  previous  remarks  of  her  daughter  that  the  Darells 
were  poor  people.  Mr.  Burkett  held  decided  opinions 
upon  poor  people.  From  force  of  habit  his  wife  gen- 
erally reflected  his  opinions.  She  foresaw  a  probable 
dilemma  in  which  a  passive  attitude  would  be  impossible. 

"Do  you  love  her,  Jim?"  she  asked  after  a  minute  or 
two. 

"Yes,  I  do,  mother,  with  all  my  heart!" 

"Does  she  love  you,  dear?" 

It  was  his  turn  to  be  silent  now.  He  could  not  tell 
his  mother  a  lie  about  a  thing  like  this.  "Not  like  I  do 
her,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said  rather  reluctantly. 

Such  an  admission  from  him  meant  much  to  his 
mother,  with  her  maternal  insight  into  his  character. 
The  light  that  came  with  his  words  leapt  to  her  mental 
vision  like  a  warning  flash,  in  which  the  girl's  predilection 
for  his  society  showed  a  dark  and  sinister  thing. 

"Why  do  you  think  she  does  not  love  you,  dear? 
Have  you  asked  her?" 

"Yes,  mater."_ 

"And  what  did  she  say?"  His  mother  did  not  at- 
tempt to  disguise  the  anxiety  in  her  voice. 

"She  said  she  did  not  love  me,"  he  answered  gloomily. 

"And  you  had  told  her  that  you  loved  her?' 

"Yes.    I  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

"Yes?" 

James  was  more  communicative  with  his  mother  than 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  167 

with  any  other  member  of  his  family.  "She  said  she 
would  marry  me  if " 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"If  I  would  have  her  without  her  love." 

"Oh,  Jim !  My  dear  boy,  I  do  hope  you  are  not  mak- 
ing a  mistake !" 

"Well,  she  was  straightforward,  mater,  anyhow!" 

"Straight forward!" 

There  was  silence  between  them  again. 

"She  has  promised  to  be  my  wife !"  he  said  defiantly. 
The  inflection  in  his  mother's  voice  as  she  had  echoed  the 
word  had  nettled  him. 

Mrs.  Burkett  sighed.  She  was  regretting  that  she 
had  asked  the  Darells  to  call.  Desiring  above  all  things 
her  boy's  happiness,  she  was  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

Feeling  that  his  mother  was  troubled,  he  spoke  hope- 
fully. "That's  all  right,  mater!  Helen  will  love  me  in 

time.  She  likes  me  very  much  now,  only  she's  not  a 

She's  not  an  effusive  sort.  We  have  many  tastes  in  com- 
mon," he  added,  as  enthusiastically  as  he  could. 

His  mother  did  not  reply;  and,  as  they  turned  in  at  the 
drive  at  "Downlands,"  he  said:  "Don't  mention  indoors 
what  I  have  just  told  you,  mater." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Burkett  doubtfully. 

"Jim  drove  me  up  from  the  stajtion,"  said  his  mother, 
in  answer  to  a  question  of  her  husband. 

"Where's  he  been?  He  left  the  city  again  early  to- 
day." 

"To  Epsom,  he  said,  with  Miss  Darell.  He  intro- 
duced me  to  her,"  she  added,  feeling  her  daughter's 
eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

Sybil  Burkett  sniffed  audibly. 

Mr.  Burkett  put  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  ad- 
justing his  pince-nez,  studied  his  wife  for  a  moment. 

She  understood  his  scrutiny  to  imply  a  request  for  fur- 
ther particulars.  "She  seems  a  very  lady-like  girl,"  she 
said  in  a  voice  of  noncommital. 

Her  daughter's  face  hardened  perceptibly.     "So  Jim 


1 68  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

has  been  talking  you  round,  mater!"  said  that  young 
lady,  without  attempting  to  hide  her  sarcasm. 

"Mrs.  Darell  came  out  as  we  drove  up  to  "Cloudes- 
hill,"  and  I  went  in  for  a  few  minutes.  I  asked  them  to 
call,"  she  went  on,  ignoring  Sybil's  remark. 

"I  can't  understand  what  Jim  can  see  in  her!"  re- 
torted Sybil  angrily.  "They  are  poor  as  anything.  She 
is  a  combination  of  a  sort  of  glorified  modiste's  assistant 
and  a  circus  woman.  Anyone  can  see  that  she  only  wants 
Jim  because  she  thinks  he  will  be  rich.  It's  infatuation  on 
his  part!  Phoebe  was  saying " 

Mr.  Burkett  interrupted  his  daughter.  "You  asked 
them  to  call,  my  dear?"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "Do  you 
think  there  is  anything  in  it? — as  far  as  James  is  con- 
cerned?" 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  The  time  was  cer- 
tainly coming  when  a  negative  position  would  be  impos- 
sible. "I'm  inclined  to  think  there  is,"  she  said  in  tones 
of  one  who  is  unwillingly  committed  to  a  definite  state- 
ment. The  poor  lady  was  sorely  troubled. 

James  came  down  late  for  dinner,  and  his  enjoyment 
of  that  meal  was  considerably  below  the  average.  There 
was  a  strained  atmosphere  at  the  table  that  night,  which 
his  sister's  remarks,  about  some  one  else's  remarks  about 
Miss  Darell,  aggravated  to  such  an  extent  that  it  was 
only  with  considerable  effort  on  his  part  that  he  suppressed 
the  swear  words  with  which  he  relieved  his  feelings  when 
he  shut  himself  up  in  his  den  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

HELEN  MAKES  ANOTHER  CONQUEST ;  SYBIL,  A  REVOLTING 
DISCOVERY 

MRS.  DARELL  and  her  daughter  called  at  "Down- 
lands"  the  following  week  and  stayed  to  tea. 

The  occasion  had  infected  Helen  with  sufficient  ex- 
citement to  dissipate  something  of  the  calm  that  was  the 
usual  condition  of  the  distinctive  atmosphere  she  seemed 
— like  other  celestial  bodies — to  carry  about  with  her. 
The  ordinary  gaze  of  indifference  with  which  her  dusky 
eyes  viewed  people  and  things  in  general  was  broken  fit- 
fully, from  time  to  time,  as  though  by  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  some  storm  sweeping  across  her  soul  within 
— an  impression  intensified  by  the  clouds  of  sable  hair 
hanging  like  night  above  her  eyes. 

The  wand  of  circumstance  had  stirred  previously  un- 
disturbed depths  of  feeling  in  her  nature.  From  a  vortex 
of  emotions  she  had  emerged  at  last  with  the  desire  of 
becoming  James  Burkett's  wife  predominant — a  desire 
inspired  by  motives  which  she  neither  disguised  from  her- 
self nor  from  her  mother  in  one  mocking  outburst  of 
revolt  against  the  blind  forces  of  a  necessity  which  she 
admitted  and  desired  in  the  abstract,  and  whose  approach 
into  the  realms  of  the  material  things  of  her  life  filled  her 
with  an  illogical  rebellion. 

Mrs.  Burkett  received  her  visitors  with  as  much  cor- 
diality and  enthusiasm  as  it  was  her  wont  to  show  toward 
anyone;  and  Sybil — using  her  fear  of  her  brother's 
temper  for  the  purpose  like  a  pruning  knife — had  lopped 
off  the  hatred  sprouting  from  her  own  feelings  in  the 
169 


i  yo  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

matter,  and  modified  her  demeanor  into  something  ap- 
proaching friendliness.  She  had  at  first  attacked  Helen 
personally  to  James,  in  her  endeavor  to  destroy  the  in- 
creasing friendship  between  that  girl  and  her  brother, 
but  his  "fearful  explosion  of  disgusting  language"  had 
warned  her  that  such  a  course  would  only  result  in  his 
championing  through  thick  and  thin  the  woman  who  had 
infatuated  him.  The  saddle  incident  still  rankled  in 
Sybil's  breast;  but  the  venom  had,  to  a  certain  extent,  been 
rendered  innocuous  by  the  introduction  into  her  system  of 
another  virus — that  of  a  profound  and  unutterable 
hatred,  loathing,  and  contempt  for  her  erstwhile  bosom 
friend,  Phoebe  Price. 

That  young  woman,  realizing  the  futility  of  her  de- 
signs upon  the  indifferent  James,  had  left  the  field  to  her 
rival's  pagan  charms — as  more  in  keeping  with  his  tastes 
and  susceptibilities  than  her  own  refined  and  genteel  ac- 
complishments. 

The  rapidity  with  which  a  friendship  sprang  up  be- 
tween Phoebe  and  the  Reverend  Eustice  Heugh,  one  of 
the  curates  at  St.  Mordred's,  aroused  suspicion  in  Miss 
Burkett's  mind — not  a  very  difficult  matter  at  any  time. 
The  result  of  inquiries  on  her  part  was  the  revelation  of 
a  "shameless  duplicity,  which  had  been  going  on  for  ever 
so  long,"  and  a  most  fearful  quarrel  between  the  late  in- 
separables, in  which  Sybil  accused  the  other  of  having 
two  strings  to  her  bow,  while  professing  an  undying  at- 
tachment for  James.  Both  young  ladies  not  only  made 
use  of  the  most  unlady-like  remarks  to  each  other,  but 
showed  a  proficiency  in  the  use  of  same  that  was  as  aston- 
ishing as  the  scornful  indifference,  with  which  the  vari- 
ous epithets  were  received  on  both  sides,  was,  apparently, 
unassumed. 

Phoebe's  brother,  who  had  been  "greatly  taken"  with 
Sybil,  was  immediately  enlightened  as  to  the  real  char- 
acter of  that  person — several  of  her  remarks  being  re- 
tailed with  fiendish  delight  by  his  sister  to  the  horrified 
youth,  a  paragon  of  gentility  who  was  in  a  west-end  bank, 
and  who  considered  vulgarity  of  any  kind  in  a  lady  as 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  171 

something  for  which  one  might  reasonably  expect  the 
stars  to  fall. 

The  state  of  the  campaign,  so  far,  had,  of  course, 
under  the  circumstances,  gone  largely  in  favor  of  Miss 
Price;  and  the  enraged  Sybil  smothered  her  mortifica- 
tion before  the  indirect  cause  of  her  own  troubles — for 
the  time  being,  at  least. 

The  drawing-room  at  "Downlands"  was  pleasantly 
situated,  with  glass  doors  that  looked  on  to  the  foliage 
of  a  fine  old  cedar  growing  in  the  lawn,  which  sloped 
down  from  the  back  of  the  house  to  a  terrace  garden 
below;  the  background  completed  by  a  tree-clad  ridge  of 
hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  park. 

Tea  was  served;  the  spode  eliciting  the  remarks  from 
the  visitors  which  it  never  failed  to  do  on  similar  oc- 
casions. Under  the  influence  of  the  cup  that  cheers,  Mrs. 
Burkett  expanded  slightly  toward  her  guests,  and  en- 
gaged with  Mrs.  Darell  in  an  exchange  of  those  tenets 
of  the  tea-table  sacred  to  that  important  function  among 
British  matrons. 

"I  hope  you  did  not  mind  me  using  your  saddle,  the 
other  day?  I  sold  mine  when  I  gave  up  hunting,  and  I 
was  simply  dying  for  a  gallop." 

"Not  at  all,  delighted!  I  hope  you  found  it  suited 
you,"  replied  Sybil,  with  a  sweetness  which  would  have 
deceived  anyone  but  a  woman. 

"Your  brother  has  saved  me  from  a  soul-destroying 
ennui.  We  were  absolutely  lost  in  Wimbledon,"  said 
Helen. 

Presently  the  two  men  arrived  from  the  city;  and 
Helen  laid  herself  out  for  the  conquest  of  Bertram  Bur- 
kett, Esquire.  James  had  already  noticed,  with  consider- 
able satisfaction,  that  such  silk  as  she  was  wearing  was 
one  of  Burkett  and  Bowker's  most  famous  shades. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  with  uneasy  feelings  that  he  con- 
templated the  result  of  the  meeting. 

All  his  doubts,  however,  were  soon  set  at  rest.  Mr. 
Burkett's  hands  became  restive;  behind  the  gold-rimmed 
glasses  his  small  eyes  lighted  up  with  half-forgotten 


1 72  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

smiles  of  former  days,  when  his  smile  and  manner  as  a 
shopwalker  had  brought  him  fame  in  the  retail,  and  laid 
the  foundation  of  his  partnership  in  the  ancient  house  of 
Bowker  and  Bowker,  as  it  was  then. 

Helen's  magnificent  eyes  and  Cleopatra-like  beauty 
wrought  such  havoc  behind  his  ample  shirt-front  that  his 
usual  pompous  placidity  vanished  before  his  evident  ad- 
miration; and  his  son  and  daughter,  with  a  kind  of  fear- 
ful fascination,  watched  his  white  hands  washing  them- 
selves in  a  manner  which  betokened  the  complete  mental 
oblivion  of  their  owner  to  everything  but  the  young 
beauty  he  hovered  round  in  effusive  endeavors  to  en- 
tertain. 

She  received  his  attentions  with  a  charming  grace  of 
manner  of  her  own,  in  keeping  with  the  role  she  had  set 
herself  to  play;  and  poor  Mrs.  Burkett,  with  her  son's 
words  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  saw  in  her  husband's  atti- 
tude toward  her  prospective  daughter-in-law  a  reason  for 
regret,  and  a  future  rod  for  their  own  backs.  An  innate 
feeling  of  antagonism  toward  the  girl,  that  she  could 
account  for  easily  enough,  was  blended  with  a  vague 
dread  at  the  dominating  power  of  her  beauty.  A  plain 
woman  herself — she  instinctively  distrusted  beauty  in  her 
sisters;  perhaps,  because  she  recognized,  in  a  way  that 
only  plain  women  can,  the  truth  contained  in  a  previously 
quoted  saying  respecting  a  plain  face  and  virtue. 

When  at  last  his  guests  decided  that  they  must  really 
go,  Mr.  Burkett  insisted  upon  the  brougham  taking  them 
home  to  "Cloudeshill" ;  and  they  left,  after  the  worthy 
merchant  had  extracted  repeated  promises  that  they 
would  call  again. 

James,  delighted  with  the  impression  Helen  had 
created,  informed  his  father  that  he  had  asked  her  to 
marry  him,  and  that  she  had  consented — omitting  to  men- 
tion certain  details  which  had  evidently  caused  his  mother 
considerable  uneasiness. 

"  Ton  my  word,  my  boy,  you  might  have  chosen 
worse!"  Mr.  Burkett  exclaimed,  although  somewhat 
taken  aback  at  the  rapidity  with  which  his  son  had 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  173 

brought  his  wooing  to  a  successful  issue.     "What  does 
your  mother  think?" 

His  mother  thought  many  things,  but  she  did  not 
venture  to  express  her  thoughts.  "She  is  a  very  charm- 
ing girl,  and  Mrs.  Darell  was  very  nice,  Bertram,"  was 
her  only  remark.  She  suppressed  an  involuntary  sigh 
from  every  one  but  her  daughter,  who  looked  at  her 
with  newly  awakened  curiosity. 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID  WITH  A  MAN 

JAMES  and  Helen  got  into  the  last  "special"  for  San- 
down  Park  a  few  days  later,  and  were  soon  deep  in  a 
discussion  of  the  entries  for  the  Phoenix  Maiden  Hurdle 
Race,  to  be  decided  there  that  day — in  which  event 
Thracian  Sea  was  to  make  his  debut  "over  the  sticks," 
and  in  the  colors  of  his  new  owner. 

He  had  handed  her  a  race  card,  after  having  penciled 
a  big  mark  against: 

3.     Mr.  James  Burkett's  THRACIAN  SEA,  B.  g.  by  St.  Simon — 
Samothrace. 
(Black,  scarlet  chevrons,  sleeves,  and  cap.)  a.  11.7 

Out  of  an  entry  of  some  dozen  horses  there  would  be 
a  field  of  eight  runners — according  to  his  paper — and 
two  of  them  had  incurred  penalties  of  7  Ib.  since  the  race 
closed. 

"Dear  old  Thracian  Sea !"  said  Helen.  "I  do  hope 
he  will  win!  I  shall  be  most  horribly  disappointed  if  he 
doesn't,  dear,  won't  you?" 

James  was  very  optimistic.  In  a  letter  from  Hen- 
shaw,  the  trainer  had  informed  him  that  Thracian  Sea 
had  done  well  in  a  good  stripped  gallop  which  amounted 
to  a  trial;  and,  the  opposition  not  being  very  powerful,  he 
was  confident  that  victory  would  be  his  at  the  first  at- 
tempt. 

"I'm  going  to  have  fifty  pounds  on,"  he  said.  "Three 
or  four  of  'em  will  be  backed,  and  if  I'm  lucky  I  may  get 
five  to  one.  If  the  old  beggar  pops  up,  I've  got  my  eye 

174 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  175 

on  two  other  races  I've  put  him  in,  and  if  I  can't  win  a 
thousand  on  the  three,  I'm  a  Dutchman!" 

By  the  time  they  reached  Esher  he  would  not  hear 
of  defeat,  and  told  the  guard  who  unlocked  the  door  for 
them  that  Thracian  Sea  was  a  certainty,  bar  accidents; 
that  official  registering  a  vow  to  invest  half  a  dollar  on 
the  strength  of  it. 

Helen  laughed  at  him,  as  they  walked  across  to  the 
stands,  for  taking  the  guard  into  his  confidence.  "You'll 
be  lucky  if  you  get  evens,  if  you  go  on  telling  every  one, 
dear!"  she  said;  and  he  laughed  with  her. 

"Joking  aside,  I'm  real  keen!"  he  replied.  "It's  go- 
ing to  mean  more  to  me  than  you,  if  things  turn  out  all 
right,"  he  added  wistfully — his  boyish  eagerness  sud- 
denly clouded. 

His  remark  struck  at  the  root  of  her  own  gaiety;  and 
they  walked  on  in  silence,  Helen  strangely  at  a  loss  for 
words.  She  was  wondering  if  she  would  love  this  man, 
and  hoped  that  she  might. 

They  reached  the  stand  as  the  numbers  were  going 
up  for  the  second  race — a  selling  steeplechase;  and 
James  left  her  to  find  Henshaw. 

"I've  got  Weston  to  ride  him,"  he  said  when  he  came 
back.  "Henshaw  thinks  it  a  good  thing  for  him,  bar 
accidents !" 

The  sight  of  the  horses  jumping  roused  James  to 
feverish  excitement,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  con- 
trolled his  feelings  when  at  last  the  shouts  of  "Two  to  one 
on  the  field!"  opened  the  betting  for  the  Phoenix  Maiden 
Hurdle  Race.  He  had  hurried  from  the  paddock  after 
they  had  seen  Thracian  Sea  put  to  rights  and,  going  into 
the  ring,  inquired  the  price  of  his  horse  in  some  half  a 
dozen  places. 

Two  to  one  seemed  the  best  offer  anywhere — the 
fielders,  apparently,  showing  no  desire  to  open  out.  He 
returned  to  the  stand  and  imparted  the  news  indignantly 
to  Helen. 

"He  can  run  for  the  stake!  Two  to  one!  It's  an  ab- 
surdity! The  first  time  out,  too!" 


i76  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

She  sympathized  with  him,  and  suggested  the  only 
course — a  waiting  policy. 

"Nine  to  four"  was  now  the  cry,  and  at  that  rate  two 
horses  were  soon  in  big  demand, — Firestick  and  Semi- 
ramis ;  while  presently — no  money  being  about  for  him — 
Thracian  Sea  was  well  shouted  at  fives;  a  four-year-old, 
Dream  Maiden,  at  seven  and  eight  to  one ;  and  the  others 
at  tens  and  hundreds  to  eights. 

He  went  into  the  ring  again,  and  after  some  little  de- 
mur, and  an  offer  of  225  to  50  which  he  rejected,  Taylor 
laid  him  five  fifties,  and  wished  him  luck  in  his  first  at- 
tempt. 

"I've  taken  two  hundred  and  fifty  to  fifty,  dear,"  he 
said,  as  he  took  her  arm  and  they  found  a  favorable  posi- 
tion on  the  stand  from  which  to  see  the  race. 

Thracian  Sea  cleared  the  preliminary  hurdle  like  an 
old  hand  and,  with  the  sun  suddenly  appearing  in  the 
cloudy  sky  and  shining  brightly  on  the  pristine  black  and 
scarlet  silk  above  him,  he  cantered  off  to  the  start. 

"A  favorable  omen,  Jim,"  she  said  laughing.  "The 
high  gods  are  propitious,  and  Phoebus  Apollo  smiles 
down  upon  the  Thracian  Sea  once  more !  You  ought  to 
feel  that  it  is  so,  Jim — I'm  afraid  you're  half  a  pagan, 
dear!" 

"I'd  be  a  bally  Buddhist  if  it'd  get  the  old  beggar 
home  to-day,"  he  replied,  as  he  looked  at  the  girl's  eager 
eyes  straining  at  the  distant  horse,  and  with  a  warmer 
light  than  usual  in  them. 

She  laughed  softly,  then  cried:  "They're  off!"  and 
the  flag  fell  to  a  good  start — the  scarlet  sleeves  and  cap 
conspicuous  in  the  middle  of  the  field. 

Breathlessly  they  watched  the  first  hurdle.  Thracian 
Sea  took  it  in  faultless  style;  and  their  hopes  ran  high. 

At  the  second,  he  made  a  bad  mistake,  and  was  a 
long  way  last  when  they  turned  out  of  the  straight. 

"Oh— Jim!" 

James  said:     "Damn!"  and  put  down  his  glasses. 

The  two  favorites,  Firestick  and  Semiramis,  were 
making  strong  running  side  by  side,  and  jumping  well. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  177 

Along  the  back  stretch  Thracian  Sea  picked  up  a  bit  be- 
tween the  jumps,  and  at  the  pay-gate  was  within  a  dozen 
lengths  of  the  leaders — the  other  horses  now  beginning 
to  drop  away.  As  they  swept  round  the  bottom  turn, 
Helen  cried:  "Look,  Jim!  Look!  He's  going  up  to 
them!" 

James  was  looking — his  glasses  glued  on  Thracian 
Sea,  who,  as  they  came  round  the  bend  for  home,  ap- 
peared closer  to  the  leaders  than  he  actually  was. 

"They're  coming  back  to  him!"  she  said  excitedly. 
"He'll  win  yet!" 

"It's  the  bend!  It's  deceptive  from  here,"  he  an- 
swered gloomily. 

As  they  came  up  the  straight,  first  Firestick,  and  then 
Semiramis  was  shouted — the  former  on  the  rails;  while 
Thracian  Sea  was  still  some  lengths  behind,  half  hidden 
by  the  two  leaders. 

"By  Gad! — the  old  beggar  is  coming!"  cried  Jim  sud- 
denly. "If  he's  with  'em  at  the  last  hurdle,  he'll  smother 
'em  for  speed  in  the  run  in !  Henshaw  told  Weston  to  lay 
off  on  him." 

It  was  evident  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  race.  Both 
the  favorites  were,  apparently,  doing  equally  well  as  they 
raced  together,  still  side  by  side.  Before  reaching  the 
penultimate  hurdle  Weston  pulled  out  wide  of  the  other 
two;  and  Helen  cried:  "Come  on,  Thracian  Sea!"  her 
voice  trailing  away  into  the  shouts  that  rose  above  and 
around  them. 

From  a  man  standing  a  little  below  them  came  a  ter- 
rific yell:  "What  price  Thracian  Seal  Thracian  Sea's 
won  it,  for  a  monkey!" 

Weston  was  riding  all  he  knew,  now,  and  nobly  his 
mount  responded  to  his  efforts — every  stride  taking  him 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  struggling  pair  in  front.  He 
cleared  the  last  hurdle  less  than  a  couple  of  lengths  be- 
hind; and  Helen,  tense  with  emotion,  clutched  at  her 
lover's  arm. 

"He'll  win  it!  He'll  win  it!  I'm  sure  he  will!"  she 
cried  passionately.  "He  must!" 


i78  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

James,  knowing  the  angle,  feared  greatly,  and  did  not 
answer. 

As  the  three  horses  swept  by,  Thracian  Sea,  from  the 
stand,  appeared  well  behind;  but  she  cried  out  exultingly: 
"He's  won!  He's  won!"  and  shook  the  arm  she  held  to 
emphasize  her  words. 

James  shook  his  head,  and  with  trembling  hands  put 
his  glasses  to  the  judge's  box. 

Number  3  had  gone  up.    Thracian  Sea  had  won. 

"Phew!  It  was  a  near  thing!"  he  said  as  the  tension 
relaxed,  and  the  two  stood  gazing  at  each  other  for  a  mo- 
ment. "Never  felt  so  excited  in  my  life  before!" 

"Neither  have  I !  But  you  silly  old  goose !  I  told  you 
he'd  won !  He  was  in  front  when  he  passed  us !  He's  won 
half  a  length  at  least!  You  weren't  allowing  for  the 
angle!" 

"I'll  bet  you  a  new  hat  he  hasn't!" 

321  had  gone  up  on  the  board,  and  the  words, 
HEAD,  NECK,  followed. 

He  turned  to  her,  and  the  curves  of  her  beautiful 
mouth  shaped  themselves  into  a  pout. 

"What  size  do  you  take,  Jim?"  she  said  laughingly; 
but  James  was  thinking  of  other  things. 

"I  believe  you  love  Thracian  Sea  more  than  his 
owner!"  he  answered,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  that 
was  only  partly  assumed.  "Let's  go  and  drink  the  brute's 
health  in  a  bottle  of  the  best!  Henshaw'll  look  after 
him."  And  as  they  drank  their  champagne  they  heard 
the  "All  Right"  shouted. 

The  remainder  of  the  program  was  of  little  in- 
terest to  either  of  them,  and  instead  of  staying  for  the 
last  two  races,  she  insisted  upon  walking  back  with 
Thracian  Sea  to  the  station — plying  the  boy  who  was 
leading  him  with  those  innumerable  questions  which  only 
occur  to  a  woman.  She  produced  from  her  pocket  a  lump 
of  sugar  when  they  parted  company  from  the  horse,  and 
fed  Thracian  Sea  with  it  lovingly. 

"He  be  right  fond  of  Miss,  sir!"  said  the  lad  as  he 
watched  her. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  179 

A  special  was  waiting;  and  the  guard  to  whom  James 
had  spoken  previously  came  forward  smiling,  and  found 
them  an  empty  compartment.  James  slipped  a  shilling 
into  his  hand  as  he  locked  the  door,  and  the  man  said, 
with  a  broad  grin,  "Thanks  for  the  other  tip,  sir,  it  came 
of  all  right!" 

"Did  you  back  him?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Ad  'arf  a  dollar  on  'im!  Five  to  one,  sir! 
Done  meself  a  bit  o'  good." 

"That's  right!  Don't  forget  to  back  him  next  time 
he  runs,"  James  called  to  him  as  the  train  started. 

"Well,  dear?  That's  number  one"  he  said  as  he 
leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage. 

"Yes,  dear!  law  glad  I" 

"For  my  sake?" 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  with  thoughtful  eyes, 
i  hen  she  said  gently,  "I  wish  I  could  love  you,  Jim." 

"Kiss  me !"  he  said  peremptorily,  leaning  forward  as 
he  spoke. 

"Say  please,  sir!" 

"Shan't!"  said  James,  and  relapsed  into  his  corner, 
whistling  a  tuneless  dirge  of  his  own  composition.  He 
produced  his  race  card,  and  with  a  fine  show  of  indiffer- 
ence began  to  study  its  contents. 

Helen  watched  him  from  her  seat  opposite — more 
than  a  little  vexed  with  herself.  A  sigh  escaped  her  as 
she  turned  her  head  again  and  looked  out  of  the  window 
with  unseeing  eyes. 

The  dreadful  "rune"  left  off.  "Kiss  me/'  he  re- 
peated,  but  his  voice  had  a  note  of  pleading  in  it. 

"We're  running  into  Surbiton!" 

The  unearthly  discord  commenced  again. 

"Don't,  Jim!"  she  said  playfully  putting  her  hands 
to  her  ears,  and  making  a  grimace. 

He  looked  at  her  hands,  beautiful  in  their  gloved  out- 
lines, and  from  them  to  her  hair  and  wonderful,  provok- 
ingly  inscrutable  eyes.  Then  he  turned  his  head  and 
stared  at  the  houses  flitting  past. 

"We're  running  out  of    Surbiton,"    he    said    in    the 


i8o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

voice  of  one  dispassionately  affirming  the  corollary  to 
her  previous  postulate.  He  looked  across  at  her:  and 
she  met  the  appeal  in  his  eyes  with  a  demure  glance  that 
only  half  veiled  other  and  indescribable  things. 

His  lips  pursed  themselves  up  again,  and  he  whistled 
a  few  notes  of  grindstone  timbre. 

"Jim!"   She  stamped  her  foot. 

He  laughed  at  her — a  lazy,  mocking  laugh;  and  she 
half  rose  threateningly  from  her  seat. 

"To  stop  the  train  in  cases  of  emergency,  pull  down 
the  chain.  Penalty  for  improper  use,  five  pounds,"  he 
read  out.  He  was  sitting  in  the  corner  with  his  back  to 
the  window — one  leg  thrown  comfortably  along  the 
cushions. 

She  looked  at  him  judicially — considering,  then  hur- 
riedly— out  of  the  window.  Green  fields,  trees,  and  a 
waste  of  light  gray  sky! 

He  drew  her  down,  and  held  her  lips  to  his ;  then  she 
released  herself  and  resumed  her  seat — a  faint  carmine 
dyeing  her  clear  pale  skin. 

He  laughed  joyously,  like  one  who  has  quaffed  deeply 
of  old  wine,  and  thirsts  for  more.  "He  be  right  fond  of 
Miss,  sir!" 

"Behave  yourself,  Mr.  Burkett!"  she  said  with  mock 
austerity,  as  a  signal-box  whizzed  past.  "You  will  make 
it  impossible  for  me  to  come  with  you  again  I" 

His  face  became  serious.  "Hang  it  all,  Helen!  I 
didn't  mean  to  offend  you,  dear!" 

Her  severity  collapsed — suddenly;  the  low  music  of 
the  laughter  that  rippled  from  her  lips  flooded  his  whole 
being  in  depths  of  maddening  delight.  He  jumped  up 
and,  reckless  of  such  things  as  signal-boxes,  kissed  her 
passionately. 

"Love  me,  Helen!  I  want  you  so!"  he  whispered. 
"Say,  I  love  you,  Jim!  Say  it!" 

"I  love  you,  Jim!"  she  echoed.  "Oh  I  will  love  you, 
dear!  I  must,  I  must!"  The  words  came  in  a  gust  of  feel- 
ing in  spite  of  herself;  and  her  eyes,  grown  strangely 
moist  and  warm,  had  a  great  wonder  in  them. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  181 

Again  did  Thracian  Sea  come  forth  to  do  battle  in 
the  black  and  scarlet  livery  of  James  Burkett,  Esq.,  this 
time  at  Hurst  Park. 

"This  is  the  second  time  of  asking!"  said  that  young 
gentleman,  as  the  numb&rs  went  up  for  the  Thames 
Ditton  Hurdle  Race,  in  which  Thracian  Sea  was  mulcted 
in  a  7-lb.  penalty  for  his  win  at  Sandown. 

"I'm  going  to  have  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  on  him, 
Helen,  but  there'll  be  no  five  to  one  this  journey!" 

He  came  back  presently,  and  said:  "I've  managed 
two  to  one  in  half  a  dozen  bets.  It's  a  doddle  for  him, 
but  I've  told  Weston  not  to  show  him  up,  if  he  can  help 
it.  Our  big  coup  will  be  at  Sandown  next  month,  and 

then "  He  looked  at  her  eagerly;  and  suburban 

race  courses  assumed  the  characteristics  of  Arcadian 
solitudes  under  the  spell  of  the  magic  poetry  of  Youth 
and  Love. 

His  confidence  in  Thracian  Sea's  powers  was  infec- 
tious; and  Helen  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  coming 
triumph  as  she  watched  their  champion  cantering  to  the 
post. 

The  race  in  its  earlier  stages  was  run  at  a  wretched 
pace — none  of  the  seven  runners,  apparently,  being  anx- 
ious to  go  to  the  front;  and  as  there  were  one  or  two 
sprinters  in  the  field,  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
James  saw  Thracian  Sea  suddenly  run  through  his  horses 
and  the  pace  increase. 

"Ah!  There  he  goes!"  he  cried.  "That's  better! 
One  of  those  five-furlong  brutes  might  have  chopped 
him  at  the  rate  they  were  going." 

They  were  in  the  straight  now,  and  Thracian  Sea, 
never  putting  a  foot  wrong,  was  soon  leading  his  field 
merrily  over  the  last  hurdle:  from  which  point  Weston 
made  something  of  a  race  of  it  with  Dairyman,  a  sprint 
horse  who  had  been  carefully  nursed  and  brought  with 
one  run.  He  challenged  Thracian  Sea  desperately,  and 
held  him  for  a  few  strides,  but  the  latter  went  away  again 
and  won  cleverly  by  a  length. 

"Two  lumps  of  sugar  for  Thracian  Sea,"  said  Helen 


1 82  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

oracularly,  when  James  returned  from  the  weighing- 
room,  and,  producing  them  from  her  pocket,  she  de- 
manded to  be  taken  to  her  favorite;  and  fed  him  her- 
self. 

"Seven  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  for  James  Burkett 
and  Helen,  his  wife — plus  the  stakes!  By  Gad!"  he 
added  suddenly,  and  stopped. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?" 

He  remained  motionless,  evidently  thinking  deeply; 
then  he  hurriedly  turned  the  leaves  of  his  race  card. 

"I've  got  a  big  tip  for  Thundersmoke  in  the  last  race. 
Shall  I ?" 

"Shall  you  what,  dear?" 

"Shall  I  chance  it?  Play  it  all  up  on  Thundersmoke, 
Helen,  eh?" 

"Certainly  not!"  she  said,  decisively.  "It  would  be 
tempting  Providence!" 

"I  believe  it's  a  good  thing,"  he  answered  doubtfully. 
"And — Thracian  Sea  might  break  down,  or  get  whacked 
at  Sandown  after  all!  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "it's  time 
I  got  married  and  settled  down.  The  suspense  is  getting 
rather  awful!" 

"James,  I  will  not  marry  you  if  you  do!  I  feel  sure 

Thundersmoke  will  get  beaten,  and "  The  prospect 

of  a  sudden  termination  to  her  maidenhood  startled 
her. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  left  her  and  went  down  into 
the  ring. 

While  he  was  gone,  a  swift  unquiet  took  her,  and  she 
forgot  even  Thracian  Sea  in  a  flurry  of  self-questioning. 
Oh,  to  be  sure  of  herself !  Now!  Forever.  Half  fear- 
ing that  he  was  going  to  back  Thundersmoke,  she  stood 
among  the  tenterhooks  of  irresolution.  If  he  did,  and 
the  horse  won,  he  would  hurry  on  the  wedding:  he  was 
not  without  a  certain  will  of  his  own;  and  her  own  uncer- 
tainty with  herself  was  becoming  unbearable  and  wearing 
her  out.  At  times,  when  she  was  with  him,  she  loved 
him,  surely? — and  then,  when  she  was  alone,  the  doubts 
would  close  in  upon  her  again. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  183 

By  the  time  he  came  back  it  was  not  the  defeat  of 
Thundersmoke,  that  day,  she  feared,  but  his  victory. 

He  came  back,  still  looking  longingly  at  the  entries 
for  the  last  race.  He  took  up  a  position  beside  her  with- 
out speaking,  and  she  turned  questioning  eyes  to  him. 

"No,  dear,  I  haven't.  While  I  was  hesitating  they 
"came  for"  him,  and,  from  six  to  four,  all  the  evens 
were  gone  in  next  to  no  time.  They're  taking  eleven  to 
ten. 

"Shall  we  stop  and  see  it?"  She  was  feeling  intoler- 
ably strange  and  uncomfortable.  Something,  that  was 
other  than  mere  curiosity  to  see  if  the  "certainty"  would 
win,  perturbed  her  into  unaccountable  excitement. 

"Yes.  I'll  wager  he'll  walk  in,  now  I  haven't  done 
him!" 

His  tone  was  reproachful;  and  she  bit  her  lips  more 
than  once,  while  they  waited  for  the  flag  to  fall. 

It  was  a  two-mile  steeplechase.  Thundersmoke 
rushed  to  the  front  at  the  water,  and  out-jumping 
everything,  began  to  draw  steadily  away. 

"There  he  goes.  Money  for  nothing,  absolutely. 
Damn!" 

There  was  an  expression  of  intense  disappointment  in 
his  face  as  he  turned  savagely  from  her,  after  speaking, 
and  watched  the  diminishing  horses  as  they  galloped  out 
to  the  far  side  of  the  course.  She  had  a  sense  of  guilt, 
a  longing  to  escape. 

Thundersmoke,  half  a  field  in  front,  stood  on  his 
head  at  the  last  fence. 

"Good  God !  Well,  I'm "  He  seized  her  arm  and 

hurried  excitedly  from  the  stand. 

His  emotion  hurt  her  more  than  his  hand.  The  un- 
expected which  had  just  happened  had  been  the  last 
straw  to  an  overwrought  woman.  She  had  her  weak 
moments,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex. 

In  the  cab  he  burst  out:  "God  bless  you,  Helen 
Darell,  for  keeping  me  off  it!" 

His  words  set  at  work  a  host  of  tiny  devils  that  tor- 
mented her  with  her  own  hypocrisy.  Feeling  that  he 


1 84  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

would  notice  a  strangeness  in  her,  she  made  common- 
place rejoinders,  to  his  repeated  ejaculations  about  the 
fall  of  the  favorite,  which  cost  her  an  effort.  With  grim 
persistency  her  mind  filled  with  one  idea,  indefinable, 
grotesque,  that  held  the  menace  shadows  have  at  times. 

His  demeanor  toward  her  during  the  rest  of  the  way 
home  was  a  blend  of  humility  and  respectful  admiration. 

When  a  woman  has  got  a  man  down,  it  is  only  in 
feminine  human  nature  that  she  should  kick  him,  at  least 
once  or  twice,  just  to  see  how  it  feels  to  the  kicker.  They 
were  not  alone  in  the  railway  carriage,  for  which  she  was 
devoutly  thankful.  She  spent  most  of  the  journey  won- 
dering how  she  could  best  administer  spiritual  kicks  to 
the  chastened  young  man  sitting  opposite  to  her.  When 
they  got  out  at  Wimbledon  he  was  still  scatheless,  and 
greatly  impressed  at  her  magnanimity. 

For  which  mistake  of  his,  Helen  paid  severe  penal- 
ties ere  she  could  find  sleep  that  night.  Did  Fate  intend 
her  for  this  man?  or — had  she  sealed  upon  herself  that 
afternoon  a  destiny  of  impending  and  inevitable  chains? 

In  the  dark  places  of  her  dreams,  ridden  by  a  mock- 
ing phantom  a  shadowy  horse  leapt  innumerable  fences, 
— a  horse  that  was  not  Thundersmoke,  but  Thradan  Sea. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

"NOW  THRACIAN  SEA,  TAKE  ME  TO  YOUR  MASTER — AND 

MINE!"  AND   HOW  THRACIAN  SEA  ANSWERED 

HELEN  DARELL  AT  SANDOWN  PARK 

FEBRUARY  went  its  way  through  the  first  flowers  of 
choral  woodlands :  March  set  the  copses  flickering  with 
pale  gold  under  the  hazel  boughs,  and  made  the  year 
glad  and  mad  with  its  boisterous  breath. 

James,  who  had  the  usual  amount  of  superstition  in 
the  sporting  side  of  his  character,  had,  by  this  time,  strik- 
ingly exemplified  the  power  of  auto-suggestion.  In  the 
inception  of  his  idea  respecting  Thracian  Sea,  he  had 
experienced  at  the  most  a  moderate  degree  of  hopeful- 
ness. After  the  horse's  second  victory  this  feeling  gave 
place  to  a  curious  species  of  fatalistic  belief,  which  no  ef- 
fort of  his  reasoning  faculties  could  dissipate.  If 
Thracian  Sea  won  the  March  Hurdle  Race,  he  would 
win  the  thousand  pounds  he  had  hoped  for  in  the  first 
place,  and  Helen  for  his  wife.  If  the  horse  did  not  win, 
he  would  lose  not  only  his  money,  but  the  girl  he  loved  as 
well. 

This  belief  had  grown  in  intensity  as  the  fateful  day 
grew  near,  until  he  lived  continually  in  a  state  of  nervous 
anxiety.  His  frequent  visits  of  inspection  to  Epsom  had 
become  a  kind  of  religious  duty,  and  Thracian  Sea  an 
allegorical  creature,  who  carried  on  his  back  the  future 
destinies  of  two  mortals,  and  at  least  the  future  happi- 
ness of  one.  At  night,  the  creaking  of  a  tree  outside  the 
house  suggested  the  straining  of  shoulders,  back,  or  ten- 
dons; the  roaring  of  the  wind  in  the  chimney  heralded 
185 


1 86  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

a  like  infirmity  in  the  larynx  of  Thracian  Sea;  the 
snapping  of  a  broken  branch,  and  he  expected  to  hear  in 
the  morning  that  the  horse  had  split  a  pastern  at  the 
very  least.  A  bloody  nose  in  a  street  fight  in  Stamford 
Street,  conjured  up  a  sanguinary  vision  of  broken  blood- 
vessels and  Thracian  Sea  pulling  up  half  a  mile  from 
home;  an  office  boy  at  Burkett  and  Bowker's,  who  had 
suddenly  acquired  an  atmosphere  of  paregoric,  through 
which  he  barked  painfully  at  frequent  intervals,  became 
an  elfin  child  fraught  with  bodings  of  a  dire  significance, 
James  expecting  every  morning  to  read,  in  the  training  re- 
ports, that  some  of  Henshaw's  horses  were  coughing. 

It  is  true  that  he  had  already  won  nearly  a  thousand 
pounds  with  Thracian  Sea,  including  the  stakes,  but  he 
determined  to  carry  through  his  original  program  in 
its  entirety — partly  from  a  confidence  born  of  his  suc- 
cess so  far;  partly  from  a  vanity  excusable  enough  in  one 
of  his  years;  and,  chiefly,  because  he  looked  upon  the  race 
as  a  gift  for  Thracian  Sea. 

Discussing  the  matter  with  Helen,  he  described  it  as 
"a  case  of  picking  up  money." 

She  had  at  first  entered  into  the  idea  of  the  thing 
light-heartedly,  but,  as  the  climax  approached,  she,  too, 
felt  herself  imbued  with  something  of  the  spirit  which 
had  infected  her  lover.  In  addition,  her  own  feelings 
toward  him  had  undergone  a  remarkable  alteration 
lately.  A  peculiar  shyness  with  him  at  times,  which  she 
had  certainly  never  before  experienced  in  her  relations 
with  any  of  his  sex,  alternated  with  fits  of  reckless 
abandon,  during  which  she  would  avoid  his  society  for 
reasons  which  brought  a  blush  for  answer  to  her  self- 
questionings.  After  the  Thundersmoke  affair  at  Hurst 
Park,  she  had  taken  herself  severely  to  task.  She  was 
not  playing  the  game,  and  she  determined  henceforth,  for 
good  or  for  ill,  to  be  done  with  her  doubts  and  encour- 
age all  the  sympathy  her  nature  was  capable  of  toward 
the  man  she  had  decided  on  for  partner  in  the  great  game 
of  life. 

At  last  the  day  arrived. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  187 

A  cold  northwest  wind  screamed  in  their  ears  as  they 
got  out  on  the  exposed  platform  at  Esher,  but  it  was 
otherwise  fine,  with  occasional  sunshine,  and  the  gales  of 
the  past  week  had  made  the  going  nearly  perfect. 

Helen  shivered  as  she  flung  an  extra  coil  of  fur  boa 
round  her  neck,  and  plunged  her  hands  deeper  into  her 
muff. 

They  walked  briskly  across  the  park — each  obsessed 
with  the  consciousness  of  their  fate  being  inexorably 
interwoven,  somehow,  with  Thracian  Sea's  that  after- 
noon. As  she  leaned  back  against  the  wind  that  blew  her 
skirts  against  him  from  time  to  time,  she  suddenly 
brought  out  from  her  muff  three  pieces  of  lump  sugar. 

"Three  pieces  of  sugar  for  Thracian  Sea!"  she  cried, 
laughing,  as  the  wind  caught  her  and  drove  a  loose  end 
of  her  fur  into  his  eyes. 

He  dodged  round  behind  her  to  the  other  side,  and 
held  her  tightly  by  the  arm  as  another  great  gust  swept 
down  upon  them.  "You  can  give  him  a  ton  of  sugar  if 
he  wins  to-day,  dear!"  he  shouted  into  her  ear.  "He's 
yours!" 

"Mine?  Oh,  Jim!" 

"Yes,  dear.     My  wedding  present!" 

Both  had  tacitly  decided  to  avoid  any  reference  to  a 
possible  defeat  for  the  "black  and  scarlet." 

"Jim,  you're  a  darling!"  she  said,  and  pressed  the 
hand  within  her  arm  against  her  side. 

The  first  two  races  had  been  run;  and  they  adjourned 
to  the  paddock,  where  Thracian  Sea  was  being  saddled 
in  a  sheltered  corner. 

"Now,  Weston,"  said  James,  drawing  the  jockey  on 
one  side,  while  Helen  whispered  her  instructions  into  the 
horse's  ear,  "I  want  to  win  this  race  to-day.  Don't  leave 
anything  to  chance.  Lay  up  well  with  'em  for  a  mile, 
and  then  come  right  through:  he'll  stay  at  home  all 
right.  Don't  make  too  much  use  of  him  in  the  first  mile, 
but  don't  let  'em  crawl.  You  understand?" 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Burkett.    I  don't  think  there's  much 


1 88  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

danger,  unless  it's  Night  Swallow.  I  finished  just  be- 
hind him  at  Leicester  last  week,  and  I  should  say  he's 
an  improving  sort.  Firestick  don't  go." 

"No,"  replied  James.  "They  don't  think  theirs  can 
beat  mine,  even  with  a  seven  pound  pull." 

He  had  decided  to  work  the  commission  himself,  and 
left  Helen  talking  to  the  horse. 

As  she  watched  Thracian  Sea  walking  round,  she  re- 
peated to  herself,  mechanically,  the  words  she  had  whis- 
pered to  him  just  before — an  echo  of  those  she  had  used 
to  him  on  the  memorable  occasion  of  her  gallop  in  Rich- 
mond Park.  They  had  become  as  prophetic  to  her  now 
as  they  had  become  familiar: 

"Now,  Thracian  Sea,  take  me  to  your  master — and 
mine!" 

Her  mind  clung  tenaciously  upon  the  concluding 
words,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  hopes  and 
fears,  almost  painful  in  its  intensity,  that  she  saw  the 
horse  leave  the  paddock  at  last. 

Meanwhile,  James  had  gone  cautiously  to  work,  and 
at  the  end  of  ten  minutes  had  invested,  altogether,  £600 
on  the  horse,  and  stood  to  win  £500. 

Thracian  Sea  had  opened  favorite,  and  there  was,  ap- 
parently, no  inquiry  for  anything  else  except  Night 
Swallow,  a  four-year-old,  who  was  confidently  expected 
to  improve  upon  his  initial  performance  of  the  previous 
week,  when  he  had  just  succumbed  to  a  good  class  handi- 
cap hurdler  at  weight  for  age.  The  people  behind  him 
were  piling  it  on  their  candidate,  but  the  bulk  of  the 
public  money  was  for  Thracian  Sea,  whose  gallant  vic- 
tory on  the  same  course  was  generally  remembered, 
whose  subsequent  success  had  been  achieved  in  irreproach- 
able style,  and  who  had  "class"  on  his  side. 

Carried  away  by  his  emotions,  it  had  been  a  point  of 
honor  with  James  to  stake  the  whole  of  the  £750  he  had 
already  won  in  bets.  As  the  shouts  went  up:  "Take 
eleven  to  eight,"  he  left  off  betting — hoping  that  his 
horse  would  go  out  a  bit,  as  they  were  still  backing  the 
second  favorite;  but  the  run  on  him  continued  and,  at  last, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  189 

in  despair  of  doing  better,  he  laid  £150  to  £100,  and 
went  back  to  Helen. 

"I've  laid  seven  hundred  and  fifty  to  six  hundred,  al- 
together," he  told  her.  "There's  a  lot  of  money  for 
Night  Swallow;  but  /  don't  care — it's  picking  it  up!"  he 
added,  assuming  a  nonchalance  he  was  far  from  feeling. 

Night  Swallow  was  now  being  shouted  at  seven  to 
four — the  other  five  competitors  at  anything  from  "tens" 
to  "twenties,"  and,  practically,  "running  for  the  book." 

Helen  was  very  quiet;  and  James,  after  one  or  two 
labored  attempts  at  conversation,  also  relapsed  into 
silence. 

The  flag  fell;  and  at  a  good  pace  the  field  came  up 
the  straight — Thracian  Sea  just  behind  Night  Swallow, 
as  they  passed  the  stands;  the  two  favorites  being  some 
three  or  four  lengths  from  the  leading  horse. 

James  looked  uneasily  at  his  companion,  whose  hands, 
as  she  held  the  glasses  to  her  eyes,  were  quite  steady,  in 
the  pauses  of  the  wind.  Her  face  was  flushed,  and  her 
lips  were  parted  slightly,  but  she  showed  no  other  traces 
of  excitement. 

Feeling  his  eyes  upon  her,  she  put  down  the  glasses 
and  turned  to  him  smiling — her  eyes  tearfully  bright  with 
the  sting  of  the  gale. 

Presently  some  one  shouted:  "There  goes  the  favor- 
ite!" and  they  saw  Thracian  Sea's  scarlet  draw  to  the 
front,  followed  immediately  by  the  blue  jacket  on  Night 
Swallow. 

Weston  was  riding  strictly  to  orders — there  was  just 
about  a  mile  to  go.  As  the  leaders  turned  on  steam,  the 
others  turned  it  off,  and  the  pair  drew  rapidly  away — 
Thracian  Sea  leading  on  the  rails. 

Neither  Helen  nor  her  lover  ever  forgot  the  next  two 
minutes. 

"I  can't  see  for  the  bally  wind,"  he  muttered;  but  she 
was  too  intent  to  hear  him. 

Into  the  straight  they  came,  and  still  the  St.  Simon 
horse  was  leading;  but  his  adversary  was  going  every  bit 
as  well  as  he,  and  both  were  jumping  faultlessly.  Then 


190  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

a  shout  went  up,  as  the  blue  jacket  appeared  in  full  view, 
and  Night  Swallow  ranged  up  alongside  Thracian  Sea. 
As  they  reached  the  crowd,  the  noise,  in  spite  of  the  wind, 
became  deafening,  for  Weston  had  asked  the  favorite  to 
go,  and  the  younger  horse  held  his  own. 

Held  his  own?    He  gained — gained  perceptibly! 

James  felt  a  horrible  sinking  sensation.  "My  God!" 
he  moaned  aloud.  He  could  look  no  more,  and  he  shut 
up  his  glasses  mechanically. 

Helen  had  put  hers  down  now;  and  she  stared  wildly 
and  silently  at  the  horse  who  meant  so  much  to  her  to- 
day. The  wind  in  her  ears  rose  to  a  shriek;  pande- 
monium howled  below  her:  she  heard  nothing  but  the 
unspoken  words — "Now,  Thracian  Sea,  take  me  to  your 
master — and  mine!"  If  she  had  any  distinct  feeling 
among  the  vortex  of  sensations  in  which  she  was  en- 
gulfed, it  was  sympathy  for  the  man  beside  her.  She 
stretched  out  her  hand,  blindly  groping  for  his  arm.  The 
echoing  words  became  a  prayer  as  Night  Swallow  cleared 
the  last  obstacle  half  a  length  in  front. 

Gallantly  the  old  horse  struggled,  running  on — 
straight  as  the  proverbial  gun-barrel — under  the  whip. 
He  was  holding  Night  Swallow  at  last.  "He's  coming 
again!"  James  bellowed  into  the  howling  wind.  The 
stout  blood  of  Galopin's  great  son  was  standing  him  now, 
and  he  wanted  it,  with  his  seven  pounds  the  worst  of  the 
weights. 

A  hundred  yards  to  go,  and  he  had  got  to  the  other's 
neck  again,  and  began  to  peg  him  back  inch  by  inch ! 

Fifty  yards ! 

Twenty  1 

He  was  level,  and 

A  tremendous  roar  went  up,  and  the  wind  seized  it 
and  leapt  with  it  against  the  grandstand,  and  over  the 
roof,  and  wailed  away  with  it  behind,  where  the  police- 
men and  the  cabbies  and  the  loafers  caught  it  up  in  pass- 
ing, and  shouted  it  to  each  other  down  the  Portsmouth 
Road. 

"Thracian  Sea!" 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  191 

For  Thracian  Sea  had  won.  Night  Swallow  had 
reached  the  end  of  his  flight — he  cracked  under  the  strain 
of  the  fearful  struggle ;  and,  with  a  bull-dog  courage  that 
would  not  be  denied,  Thracian  Sea  got  up  to  win  almost 
on  the  post — almost  in  the  last  stride. 

James  swung  round  to  her  and  seized  and  shook  her 
hands.  Then  he  ran  down  into  the  crowd  and  went  to 
lead  his  horse  in.  Helen  stared  after  him  and  laughed, 
but  her  face  was  very  white. 

He  came  back  at  last.  The  All  Right  signal  was  up. 
She  was  still  staring,  watching  with  fascinated  eyes  th*e 
unmistakable  figure  i  hoisted  in  the  frame. 

"Come,  dear!"  he  said;  and  they  went  inside  and  sat 
down  out  of  the  wind;  and  the  waiter  received  his  order; 
and  a  cork  popped  merrily  up  at  the  ceiling  and  fell  on  the 
table  and  bounced  on  to  the  floor;  and  the  wine  foamed 
joyously  into  their  glasses  and  into  their  hearts  and  into 
their  eyes,  and  they  drank  to  each  other,  and  to  the  horse; 
and  Helen  produced  three  pieces  of — by  this  time — 
rather  dirty-looking  lump  sugar,  and  said:  "Take  me  to 
him,  please,  Jim,"  in  the  voice  of  one  who  will  have  no 
denial. 

He  whispered  something  to  her  as  they  left  the  stand; 
and  she  blushed  furiously. 

"Well,  dear,  when?  Do  tell  me  I" — looking  very  dis- 
consolate. 

She  considered  a  minute,  then:  " " 

Apparently  her  answer  was  satisfactory,  for  his  face 
brightened  wonderfully,  and  he  commenced  his  weirdly 
tuneless  whistle — fortunately  inaudible,  in  the  wild  March 
wind,  to  her,  who  had  a  certain  march  of  Mendelssohn's 
ringing  through  her  soul. 

Three  pieces  of  sugar  for  Thracian  Sea. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  OTHER  MAN 

MARCH  had  gone,  with  its  trumpets  that  sound  the 
Titan  onsets  of  charging  skies  and  the  searching  archery 
of  hailstorms  and  swift  rains. 

One  morning  southern  England  awoke  to  the  light 
of  a  sudden  and  perfect  peace  in  the  heavens,  and  on 
the  earth  the  warm  glamours  of  still  weather  that  April 
breathes  at  times.  For  weeks  the  town  and  country-side 
basked  in  quiet  beneath  a  kindling  sun.  The  woods 
and  hedges  filled  with  leaves  and  myriad  song.  Dust 
and  dense  shadows  grew  upon  the  roads.  In  the  stillness 
that  was  upon  the  world  one  could  almost  hear  the  flow- 
ers push  upward,  the  leaves  unfold.  The  cuckoo  came, 
and  shook  the  placid  air  of  woodlands  with  his  cry:  the 
nightingale  was  heard,  early  for  England,  under  cloud- 
less stars  and  sun.  The  year  had  made  haste  quickly  to 
the  passionate  green  places  of  the  spring. 

The  Reverend  Mervyn  Ingestre  walked  bareheaded 
into  Kingston  Vale.  The  wonder  that  was  at  work  all 
about  him  this  April  morning  had  touched  him  with  a 
strange  reverence.  He  walked  as  one  for  whom  mys- 
teries awaited  their  unveiling  close  at  hand,  ahead, — were 
being  unveiled  that  very  moment,  perhaps.  He  followed 
the  brook  to  the  main  road.  Turning  to  the  right,  along 
that  highway,  he  reached  a  row  of  Lombardy  poplars, 
golden-bronze  against  the  blue  sky  spaces  above;  into 
which  the  first  white  clouds  that  had  been  seen  for  many 
days  were  now  creeping  slowly  from  the  south. 
192 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  193 

It  was  in  the  hour  before  noon,  and  he  was  seeking 
material  for  a  picture  of  April  birch  trees  under  a  mid- 
day sun. 

Possessing,  in  the  roots  of  him,  the  true  artist's  tem- 
perament, circumstances,  so  far,  had  made  him,  to  a 
great  extent,  hardly  more  than  an  amateur  in  expression. 
His  religious  faith  had,  in  past  years,  claimed  his  pas- 
sionate love  for  the  Beautiful  in  ideas :  he  had  loved  the 
beauty  in  wild  nature  vaguely,  wistfully,  at  times,  half 
afraid  of  pagan  snares  therein  that  might  betray. 

Because  of  the  faith  that  was  in  him  he  had  resisted 
the  lure  of  the  earth  about  him.  To  glorify  his  Maker 
he  had  sung  its  praises  in  verse,  had  portrayed  it  in 
color  and  in  line. 

In  this,  his  twenty-sixth  year,  the  spring  had  troubled 
his  blood  as  with  the  persistent  wiles  of  a  jealous  woman. 
During  the  recent  spell  of  sunny,  peaceful  days,  he  had 
grown  uneasy,  like  a  man  who  quested,  half  shame- 
facedly, in  calm  weather  through  a  land  of  song,  for  the 
uncertain  yet  desirable  favors  of  an  earthly  mate.  An- 
other desire,  that  of  knowledge  for  its  own  sake,  had  also 
awakened  strongly  in  him.  All  through  the  past  winter 
he  had  studied  in  what  had  been  to  his  devout  soul  for- 
bidden books.  Doubt  had  done  its  work,  his  peace  of 
mind  had  departed,  his  spirit  had  known  much  tribula- 
tion in  the  gray  waste  places  of  Unbelief. 

For  consolation  he  turned  more  and  more  to  his 
artistic  hobbies.  In  which  search  for  solace  he  was  only 
partially  successful:  but  his  painting  improved,  or  at  least 
he  fancied  it  did. 

He  stood,  thinking,  for  a  few  moments  by  the  poplar 
trees,  wherethrough  a  rising  wind  rustled  above  his 
head.  There  was  a  sign-post  pointing  up  a  narrow  lane. 
It  bore  the  words,  "Bridle  path  to  Wimbledon."  He 
turned  toward  the  woods  he  had  but  recently  left,  and 
followed  the  path  between  hedges  misty  with  the  young 
green  of  elm.  At  last,  some  way  into  the  wood  and  a 
little  to  the  right  of  the  track,  he  found  a  subject  to  his 
liking. 


i94  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

He  set  up  his  easel  and  canvas,  and  commenced  upon 
a  group  of  birches  in  a  sandy  hollow.  Painting  rapidly 
and  with  increasing  confidence,  as  the  work  grew  under 
his  hand  he  became  absorbed  in  it  to  the  exclusion  of 
troublous  thought  or  emotion. 

An  hour  and  more  he  worked  on  undisturbed,  with 
nervous  and  sure  hand  and  eyes,  happy  in  a  new  power 
of  understanding  and  interpretation.  With  an  artist's 
rapture  in  creation  he  felt  color  and  form  find  passionate 
unity  within  his  brush  and  reproduce  their  semblance, 
for  his  joy  in  days  to  come ;  felt  the  mood  of  the  place  and 
hour  caught  in  the  net  of  his  own  nerves,  and  his  nerves 
gather  to  his  hand  light  and  shade,  sunbeams  and  vagrant 
airs,  to  fix  transience  henceforth  in  the  magic  mirror  of 
the  painter's  art. 

Then,  as  he  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two,  to  judge  of 
the  success  of  his  efforts,  the  snort  of  a  horse  behind  him 
startled  him  and  he  turned  round. 

Helen  Darell,  bareheaded,  and  in  a  blue  habit, 
smiled  at  him  and  nodded.  She  and  her  mother  had 
recently  attended  St.  Mordred's,  of  which  church  he  was 
one  of  the  curates.  He  raised  his  hat,  and  stood  watch- 
ing her  irresolutely,  palette  and  brush  in  hand. 

Helen  turned  Thracian  Sea  into  the  fern.  "Good 
morning,  Mr.  Ingestre.  I  didn't  know  you  were  an 
artist!  May  I?"  She  commenced  to  study  the  canvas 
intently,  her  lips  left  parted  after  speaking. 

"Hardly  that,  I'm  afraid!"  he  said. 

Ere  she  came,  his  face  had  been  slightly  flushed  with 
the  joy  that  was  in  him  and  the  energy  with  which  he 
worked.  Now  his  color  had  deepened  perceptibly  at 
the  sudden  apparition  of  her  great  beauty  in  the  lonely 
wood  beside  him.  The  sunlight  poured  over  her  blue- 
clad  figure,  her  black  hair:  her  face,  her  eyes,  were  for 
him  full  of  virginal,  April  fire.  He  had  noticed  her 
beauty  in  the  past;  but  they  had  never  spoken  together 
before  this.  To-day  she  was  transfigured,  a  woman  who 
had  taken  on  strangeness,  and  a  loveliness  beyond  mortal 
women.  His  heart  beat  riotously.  The  colors  on  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  195 

palette  he  held  mixed  themselves  visibly,  as  he  looked 
down  upon  them,  into  rainbow  things. 

As  he  did  so  her  eyes  left  the  canvas  a  moment  and 
studied  him  swiftly.  He  was  tall  and  slight  in  figure — a 
man  with  a  fine  face  of  somewhat  ascetic  type,  sensitive 
about  the  mouth  and  nose,  his  hair  long  and  fine.  It  was 
as  dark  as  her  own.  Curates,  hitherto,  had  meant  but 
small  interest  for  Helen  Darell.  This  one  felt  her  gaze, 
and  he  raised  his  face  again.  She  saw  a  shyness  in  it, 
that  his  dark  eyes  were  full  of  intellect,  and  turned  to  the 
picture. 

"I  wish  /  could  paint  as  well,  artist  or  no !"  she  went 
on.  "You've  caught  the  very  spirit  of  the  trees  already. 
I  hope  you  will  let  me  see  it  when  it's  finished.  I  love 
the  birch  woods  at  this  time  of  year." 

Thracian  Sea  shifted  his  feet,  shook  his  bridle,  and 
his  head  went  down.  She  leaned  forward  over  the 
horse's  neck  and  stroked  and  patted  its  sinewy  curve. 
Mervyn  Ingestre  wrestled  mutely  with  a  desire  to  tell 
her  how  much  he  longed  to  make  a  picture  of  herself 
as  she  sat  there  thus  before  him.  He  compromised  with 
his  desire  by  promising  himself  that  he  would  paint  the 
one  he  was  engaged  on  as  he  had  never  painted  picture 
yet.  When  it  was  done,  perhaps  she  would  accept  it.  He 
wanted  to  ask  her  now.  At  last  he  found  words  to  tell 
her. 

"And  rob  you  of  your  labor  of  love !  It  would  be  too 
greedy  of  me!"  Pleased,  decidedly  pleased,  she  wanted 
him  to  press  her  to  accept  the  gift. 

"Not  at  all !  I  have  done  many  such  studies."  He  knew, 
even  as  he  spoke,  this  last  for  a  half  truth  only.  "I,  too, 
feel  the  wonderful  grace,  the  light  that  lives  in  the  leaves 
of  the  tree.  Sometimes  I  have  called  her,  'My  lady  of 
the  woods.'  Let  me  do  this  sketch  for  you,  Miss  Darell  I 
I  assure  you  to  do  so  would  invest  it  with  a — an  addi- 
tional pleasure  for  me — Do  you  paint,  yourself?" 

"I  tried,  and  failed.  No,  it  was  no  good,  I'm  not  an 
artist!"  Then  she  answered  him,  "I  must  confess  I 
should  like  it,  if  you  can  spare  it." 


196  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

They  settled  it.  He  would  bring  the  picture  to  her 
when  it  was  completed.  On  no  account  was  he  to  go  to 
the  trouble  of  having  it  framed. 

He  realized  that  he  must  lose  her  in  a  minute  or  two : 
such  an  experience  as  this  might  never  be  his  twice. 
Against  his  fear  was  the  fear  that  she  might  urge  him  to 
go  on  painting  there  and  then.  In  his  present  condition 
it  was  impossible :  she  would  see  his  hand  tremble  at  every 
stroke.  Coherent  effort  was  out  of  the  question,  just 
then. 

Nor  could  he  paint  any  more,  afterward,  when  she 
had  left  him.  Instead,  he  sat  down  on  his  stool,  and 
stared  with  blind  eyes  at  the  light;  his  senses,  his  soul, 
full  of  the  magic  echoes  of  a  voice  musical  beyond  bird 
voices, — of  a  memory  that  made  the  sunlight  weak  and 
pale  against  the  shape  that  filled  his  eyes.  An  incredible 
sweetness  had  come  to  him — the  sweetness  of  a  young 
man's  first  love  for  a  woman.  He  filled  with  the  spiritual 
ecstasy  of  a  man  who  has  known  not  carnal  commerce 
with  the  other  sex.  Such  things,  without  love,  were,  in 
his  philosophy,  unworthy  of,  incompatible  with,  the  true 
spiritual  life;  albeit  there  was  more  of  passion  in  his 
chastity  than  may  be  readily  understood  of  many  men. 

Helen  Darell,  as  she  rode  home  to  lunch,  determined 
she  would  pass  that  way  on  the  morrow,  or  on  the  next 
day  of  blue  sky  and  sun. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  avoided  that  particular  ride 
henceforth  on  such  days,  and  there  were  many.  Some- 
thing in  the  curate's  attitude  toward  her  had  given  her 
warning  of  possible  complications,  should  they  meet 
often;  and,  she  told  herself,  she  would  be  sorry  to  spoil 
the  young  man's  peace  of  mind.  She  did  not  tell  herself 
she  would  be  glad  to  do  so,  as  well — perhaps  such  in- 
formation was  not  necessary.  On  gray  days  she  went 
that  way. 

When  he  called  with  the  picture,  she  was  out.  She 
had  it  framed;  and  hung  it  in  her  bedroom. 

She  next  met  him  in  the  street,  in  company  with  his 
vicar.  She  stopped  and  thanked  Mervyn  Ingestre;  which 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  197 

done,  she  praised  his  picture  highly  to  the  older  man. 
The  latter  spoke  to  her  of  her  approaching  marriage  (it 
had  been  postponed  for  a  month,  owing  to  a  death  in 
James  Burkett's  family) ,  while  Mervyn  Ingestre  became 
interested  in  the  slow  passing  of  a  carrier-tricycle,  on 
whose  pedals  a  white-aproned  youth  leisurely  rose  and 
fell.  When  they  shook  hands,  at  parting,  she  thought 
the  curate  rather  anaemic-looking. 

She  mentally  contrasted  him  afterward  with  her  stal- 
wart betrothed;  with  the  result  that  James  seemed  rather 
coarse — almost  gross,  in  fact.  She  did  not  show  him 
the  picture.  He  cared  little  for  such  art:  sporting  sub- 
jects were  more  to  his  mind,  as  she  knew. 

The  night  before  her  wedding  she  took  down  the 
picture  from  its  place  on  the  wall  and  held  it  tightly  in 
her  two  hands,  the  while  she  studied  it  closely  and 
thoughtfully,  as  though  she  were  looking  for  some  other 
image  below  the  paint.  Ere  she  returned  it  to  its  place 
she  half  raised  the  canvas  to  her  lips,  as  if  she  were  about 
to  kiss  it.  She  refrained;  and  a  great  rush  of  color  swept 
from  her  throat  to  her  hair.  She  went  to  sleep  wonder- 
ing if  she  would  have  blushed  so  had  she  obeyed  her  first 
impulse,  but  without  finding  any  enlightenment. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

A  WEDDING  AT  WIMBLEDON,  AND  A  JOURNEY  WESTWARD 

IT  was  her  wedding  morning,  and  Helen  awakened 
to  consciousness  and  the  significance  of  the  day  for  her  in 
the  dusk  that  precedes  the  dawn. 

She  sat  up  and  yawned,  stretching  her  lithe  body 
luxuriously,  and  then,  slipping  down  into  the  warm  bed 
again,  she  lay  very  quiet.  Presently  she  sat  up  again, 
her  dark  eyes  wide  open  now  and  luminous  with  the  stuff 
of  dreams  that  a  woman  dreams  only  on  that  particular 
day  of  her  life.  She  rolled  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the 
window. 

On  the  small  lawn  at  the  back  of  "Cloudeshill"  dim, 
dark  shapes  darted  through  the  surrounding  gray:  black- 
birds and  thrushes  were  already  at  work,  varying  their  la- 
bors with  an  occasional  note  of  music  from  bush  and  tree. 
She  opened  the  window  wide  and  looked  out — drinking  in 
the  air  in  draughts  of  delicious  invigoration.  The  gar- 
den was  small,  but  surrounded  by  others — old  gardens 
for  the  most  part,  with  a  wealth  of  fruit  tree  blossom 
showing  like  patches  of  snow  on  the  dusk.  The  morning 
was  very  still,  and,  when  a  bird  sang,  the  hush  of  in- 
animate nature  seemed  to  know  an  equal  ecstasy  of 
silence. 

Slowly  the  gray  east  opened  like  the  petals  of  a  rose; 
the  shadows  grew  into  definite  shapes;  the  dawn  wind 
stirred  in  the  fruit  blossom  and  in  the  girl's  dark  hair; 
and  then  a  hundred  tiny  throats  swelled  in  a  paean  to 
Apollo  as  the  coming  of  the  Sun  god  was  heralded  by  a 
rosy  flush  on  a  cloudy  sky  above. 

The  real  cause  of  her  rising  thus  early  was  Thracian 
198 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  199 

Sea — since  his  Sandown  triumph  her  own  property  and 
stabled  at  "Downlands." 

Since  his  memorable  victory  she  had  seldom  missed 
a  morning  gallop  on  the  horse;  and  to-day  she  had  de- 
termined to  indulge  in  the  practice  by  an  hour's  ride  be- 
fore breakfast.  He  was  to  be  brought  round  at  seven. 
The  wedding  was  fixed  for  half  past  twelve;  and  her 
mother  had  positively  forbidden  Thracian  Sea  at  any 
other  hour — Mrs.  Darell  exerting  her  authority  for  the 
last  time  in  a  nervousness  of  anxious  entreaty. 

It  was  going  to  be  fine,  she  told  herself.  It  must  be 
fine !  The  thought  of  a  wet  day  for  her  wedding  made 
her  shiver  as  she  stood  by  the  window  in  her  night  at- 
tire. She  looked  at  her  watch.  It  was  four  o'clock. 
She  went  back  to  bed,  and  lay  there  awake,  alternately 
dreaming  and  watching  the  square  of  sky  showing 
through  the  window.  The  clouds,  in  their  soft  gray  folds, 
seemed  perfectly  motionless  now,  as  though  the  winds  of 
night,  grown  weary,  had  suddenly  ceased  their  labors 
and  lay  sleeping  among  their  own  Titanic  pillows. 
Never  in  her  life  before  had  she  felt  so  much  the  infinite 
mysticism  embodied  in  that  Eternal- Wonder  poem — the 
Book  of  Nature. 

At  five  o'clock  her  mother  crept  into  the  room  and 
kissed  her,  and  informed  her  that  it  was  going  to  be  a 
splendid  day.  Mrs.  Darell  was  "all  of  a  flutter"  and 
inclined  to  tears;  wherefore,  her  daughter  became  in- 
tensely practical  and  ordered  her  back  to  bed. 

Her  bath  completed  what  the  breath  of  the  morning 
had  begun,  and  by  the  time  she  had  finished  her  toilet 
her  healthy  young  body  was  as  ravenously  hungry  as  th'e 
birds  she  was  watching  out  there  on  the  lawn  appeared 
to  be. 

She  found  her  mother  and  Susan — their  only  maid — 
already  downstairs :  the  former  fluctuating  in  subtle 
transitions  from  cheerful  tearfulness  to  tearful  cheerful- 
ness :  the  latter  reduced  by  the  importance  of  the  occasion 
to  a  semi-useless  condition.  She  promptly  commenced 
circling  round  Helen. 


200  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"Lor,  Miss  Helen !  Mr.  James'll  be  that  struck  dumb 
with  ee  for  sure!"  she  giggled. 

"Don't  be  an  idiot,  Susan,  but  get  me  something  to 
eat!"  Helen  surveyed  herself  critically  in  a  mirror. 

Her  examination  failed  to  reveal  any  flaw  in  her  per- 
sonal appearance,  and,  without  vanity,  she  could  claim 
that  her  bridegroom  would  have  at  least  one  reason  to 
be  proud  of  his  bride  that  day. 

At  last  she  heard  Thracian  Sea's  well-known  snort 
of  welcome  outside,  and,  snatching  up  her  purse  and  habit 
in  one  hand,  and  some  lump  sugar  in  the  other,  she  ran 
out  bare-headed  to  her  favorite. 

Bob  touched  his  hat  with  a  grin  as  he  brought  the 
horse  to  her.  She  fed  Thracian  Sea,  and  then,  opening 
her  purse,  took  out  a  sovereign  and  gave  it  to  his  at- 
tendant, saying  as  she  did  so: 

"There,  Bob !  Drink  my  health  and  Thracian  Sea's, 
but  don't  take  too  much,  mind,  whatever  you  do!" 

"Gawd!  She  be  an  out  an  outer,  an  no  mistake!" 
he  said  to  himself  as  she  went  back  into  the  house  and 
he  put  the  coin  into  his  pocket.  "I  don't  wonder  that 
she  cut  out  that  ere  Price  young  woman  with  our  Mr. 
James.  An  a  good  job,  too,  for  a  more  mischievious, 
scandalarisin  sort  than  } er,  ther  ain't  in  all  Wimbledon ! 
A-blabbin  of  me  drinking  outside  the  Rose  an  Crown  that 
day  as  the  'oss  won  'is  first  race!  A  couple  of  arf  pints! 
Drinkin,  indeed!" 

He  assisted  her  to  mount,  watched  her  ride  up  the 
road,  and  then  sauntered  off  to  the  nearest  public  house 
— there  to  wait  until  it  was  time  to  take  Thracian  Sea 
back  to  his  stable. 

She  had  longed  for  this  last  gallop  alone.  Out  on 
the  common,  the  glory  of  the  morning  rushed  through 
her  soul  as  Thracian  Sea  broke  into  a  canter  across  the 
grass.  The  sun  was  well  up  now,  and  a  soft  south  wind 
streamed  after  her  as  she  rode  toward  the  Windmill. 
She  commenced  talking  to  the  horse,  bending  over  and 
stroking  his  muscular  neck  as  she  did  so.  His  ears 
pricked  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  and,  instinctively,  he 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  201 

altered  his  gait.  He  was  still  in  almost  racing  trim,  and, 
when  she  cried  to  him  to  "Go  on!"  he  threw  up  his 
head  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  it  tucked  into  his  chest, 
settled  down  without  any  further  encouragement  to  a 
gallop  of  some  thirty  miles  an  hour. 

Afterward  she  wondered  why  that  ride  was  different 
from  any  that  she  ever  had  subsequent  to  it. 

She  pulled  him  back  into  a  trot,  swung  round  to  the 
left,  through  the  woods,  crossed  the  main  road  and  on 
into  Richmond  Park — where  she  let  him  out  again,  and 
he  tore  along  for  a  mile  like  a  whirlwind. 

As  she  turned  his  head  for  home  her  oft  repeated 
words  held  a  curious  significance  for  her.  She  had  be- 
come aware  that  there  was  in  her  still — even  though  she 
now  felt  that  she  loved  the  man  who  was  so  soon  to  be 
her  husband — a  shrinking  from  the  surrender  of  her 
virginity. 

She  was  neither  "innocent"  nor  "ignorant";  nor  did 
the  contemplation  of  the  marriage-state,  as  such,  in- 
spire her  with  any  of  those  misgivings  which  attack  some 
women  on  their  wedding  day.  It  was  not  any  general  re- 
pugnance against  changing  her  condition  that  oppressed 
her,  but,  as  she  trotted  up  the  hill  again  through  the 
woods,  she  was  conscious  of  an  oppression  against  which 
she  strove  in  vain.  (She  had  purposely  avoided  the 
ride  past  a  certain  group  of  birch  trees.)  It  was  as  if 
from  far  away  a  warning  was  coming  to  her,  bidding  her 
postpone  the  giving  of  herself  to  this  man.  A  little  while 
ago  it  had  been  a  case  of  selling  herself  to  him,  she  re- 
membered. She  could  honestly  say  that  such  was  not 
the  case  now,  but  .  .  .  nevertheless,  why  was  it  that,  at 
the  thought,  she  would  have  liked  the  advice  of  Mervyn 
Ingestre  on  such  matters?  .  .  . 

She  reached  the  level  going  at  the  top,  and  Thracian 
Sea  dashed  away  again,  but  she  pulled  him  up  and  walked 
him  back  to  "Cloudeshill."  With  a  great  mental  effort 
she  put  away  the  strange  idea  that  was  obsessing  her  at 
last,  and  called  to  Bob  as  he  led  the  horse  away — not  to 
forget  to  let  him  have  as  much  corn  as  he  could  eat  that 


202  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

'day.  A  bottle  of  port  wine  she  had  determined  to  re- 
serve for  his  especial  treat  under  her  personal  super- 
vision after  the  wedding  breakfast  was  over. 

"The  ceremony  was  performed  by  the  vicar  of  St. 
Mordred's,  assisted  by  the  Rev.  Mervyn  Ingestre."  Thus 
"The  Wimbledon  and  Raynes  Park  Gazette" — with  the 
usual  panegyric  on  the  bride's  personal  appearance,  etc. 

Helen,  unlike  most  young  women  under  a  similar 
ordeal,  outwardly  evinced  none  of  those  perturbations  of 
flesh  and  spirit  common  to  her  sex.  If,  inwardly,  she 
experienced  any  such  feelings,  her  cheeks  were  flushed 
only  to  a  degree  sufficiently  becoming  to  enhance  the  pur- 
ity of  her  pale  skin,  and  her  eyes  wore  their  usual  look  of 
calm. 

James,  responding  to  the  usual  toasts,  as  is  generally 
the  case  on  these  occasions,  was  a  long  time  saying  a 
very  little;  and  in  spite  of  genuine  efforts  on  the  part 
of  his  bride  to  be  gracious  to  all  and  sundry,  as  became 
her  position,  the  consensus  of  opinion  afterward — at  least 
among  the  feminine  element  present  at  the  function — was 
that  she  was  "cold,"  in  some  instances  amplified  by  the 
addition  that  she  was  "deep." 

One  person  at  least  who  was  present  in  the  church 
kept  his  opinion  of  the  bride  to  himself,  and  that  was 
the  Reverend  gentleman  who  had  assisted. 

He  had  assisted  to  his  own  undoing,  and,  after  it 
was  all  over,  his  large,  dark,  and  rather  sad  eyes  had 
clung  unconsciously  to  Helen  Burkett's  in  a  manner  which, 
fortunately  for  him,  escaped  the  notice  of  everyone  else 
save  the  object  of  his  scrutiny.  She  colored  slightly  under 
the  intensity  of  his  gaze;  and  he  awoke  to  the  fact  that 
he  had  been  staring  at  her  in  a  highly  discreditable  way, 
and  kept  his  eyes  averted  until  the  party  left  the  church — 
when  he  could  not  resist  another  furtive  glance  at  the 
woman  who  had  so  violently  disturbed  the  deep  places 
of  his  soul. 

He  was  startled  to  find  that  she  was  in  turn  regard- 
ing him  with  an  expression  which,  to  his  present  men- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  203 

tal  condition,  seemed  strangely  like  a  reflection  of  his 
own. 

The  reception  was  over.  Thracian  Sea  had  drunk 
her  health  in  a  bottle  of  old  port — being  led  out  from 
his  box  for  that  purpose,  accompanied  by  Sunlight,  who 
also  had  his  bottle — and  marking  his  appreciation  of 
the  vintage  and  proceedings  generally  by  landing  his 
stable  companion  heavily  in  the  ribs,  and  scattering  the 
crowd  of  guests  in  all  directions.  Whereat  Helen  had, 
of  course,  to  go  to  him  and  remonstrate  with  him  for 
his  unseemly  behavior — much  to  the  horror  of  several 
elderly  ladies  present,  who  expected  every  moment  to  see 
the  new  made  bride  kicked  to  death  before  her  husband's 
eyes. 

"A  splendid  creature  I"  said  Mrs.  Gunn,  of  The  Myr- 
tles— a  thin  lady  who  had  retired  hurriedly  to  a  safe 
distance — to  Mrs.  Lowage,  of  The  Laurels — a  stout  one 
who  had  been  too  timid  to  approach  the  horses  at  all. 
"A  splendid  creature,  but  wild  and  untamable  as  the 
dreadful  vicious  racing  horse  itself!  I  am  sure  someone 
will  have  their  brains  dashed  out  in  a  minute !  I  envy 
the  man  who  has  to  manage  her.  It  is  a  good  match  for 
her  from  a  worldly  point  of  view,"  she  added  in  the  tone 
of  one  inviting  confidence.  "He  seems  very  fond  of 
her?" 

"Fond!  Why,  he's  infatuated  with  her!"  replied 
Mrs.  Lowage,  who  had  been  a  staunch  supporter  of  the 
Phoebe  Price  interests,  and  who,  after  emphatically  ex- 
pressing her  convictions  that  James  most  certainly  would 
marry  that  young  lady,  had  seen  her  predictions  falsi- 
fied for  ever  by  the  events  of  the  day.  She  felt,  there- 
fore, that  she  had  a  right  to  be  critical  toward  the  whole 
affair.  "She  is  beautiful,  I  suppose,  to  those  who  admire 
that  dark,  tragic  kind  of  beauty,  but  those  sort  of  girls 
so  seldom  make  good  wives  that  my  affection  for  the  boy 
himself  and  his  family  makes  me  nervous." 

"Men  are  so  easily  taken  in  by  the  mere  external 
and  transitory  attractions,  I'm  afraid,"  remarked  Mrs. 


204  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Gunn.  "They  so  frequently  sacrifice  the  substance  for 
the  shadow !"  and  Mr.  Gunn  would  probably  have  sec- 
onded her  remark  had  he  heard  it — his  lady  being  not 
infrequently  likened  to  a  shadow  in  their  descriptions  of 
her  by  her  friends  and  acquaintances. 

If  plainness  of  exterior  were  a  reliable  guide,  indi- 
cating the  presence  of  internal  beauties,  Mrs.  Gunn  must 
have  had  a  veritable  Pantheon  of  spiritual  loveliness  in- 
side her. 

"By  Gad,  wife! — you  are  a  ..."  and  James  Bur- 
kett  stared  across  from  his  corner  of  the  railway  carriage 
at  his  wife,  at  a  loss  for  words  to  describe  adequately 
either  his  own  feelings  or  her  beauty.  He  had  helped 
himself  rather  freely  to  champagne  during  the  day. 

His  bride  flushed  slightly  and  made  him  a  little  bow. 

"It  is  meet  that  I  should  find  favor  in  my  lord's  eyes," 
she  said,  and  studied  with  an  interest  wholly  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  subject  a  large  enameled  iron  advertisement 
of  somebody's  ink  running  down  the  station  wall. 

They  had  a  compartment  to  themselves  in  the  Ilfra- 
combe  express,  at  Waterloo,  waiting  to  start  on  its  jour- 
ney to  the  west. 

They  had  decided  to  spend  the  first  three  weeks  of 
the  honeymoon  at  Ilfracombe,  and  return  for  Ascot.  She 
had  been  too  uncertain  as  to  whether  she  longed  for  a 
quiet  place  or  the  reverse,  in  which  to  spend  that  critical 
period,  to  offer  any  objection  when  he  suggested  the  one 
place  he  seemed  to  consider  preferable  above  all  others. 

At  last  the  train  drew  out  from  the  station  and  was 
soon  rushing  through  the  golden  glory  of  the  afternoon 
sunshine.  As  they  sped  along  the  embankment  across 
the  Wandle  valley,  toward  Wimbledon,  Helen's  eyes 
sought  the  distant  trees  of  Wimbledon  Park  standing  up 
against  the  sky,  and  her  mind  instinctively  reconstructed 
the  scenes  of  her  past  life  enacted  in  that  vicinity. 

"I'll  have  Thracian  Sea  sent  on  next  week,"  said 
James,  "if  you're  tired  of  me  by  that  time.  You  will 
be,  I  expect,"  he  added  rather  dolefully. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  205 

His  wife  aroused  herself  from  her  reverie  and  flushed 
hotly  at  his  words.  She  had  at  that  moment  been  mutely 
questioning  her  own  soul  as  to  whether  she  really  did 
love  him  or  not.  In  obedience  to  a  mandate  she  had 
issued  to  herself  respecting  her  future  line  of  conduct 
toward  him  she  rose  from  her  seat  and  sat  down  by  his 
side. 

"Love  me,  Jim,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  stretched 
out  her  hand  for  his. 

"We  are  running  out  of  Surbiton!"  There  was  a 
sudden  and  unusual  roguishness  in  her  dark  eyes  as  she" 
spoke.  Thinking  hurt  her  vaguely  before  his  face, 
flushed  as  it  was  with  wine  and  passion  for  herself.  Like 
Keats,  she  could  have  cried  out  for  a  life  of  sensations. 

His  hand  closed  on  hers,  trembling  slightly  as  he 
kissed  her;  and  she  leaned  on  his  shoulder,  wondering  at 
the  enigma  her  own  feelings  presented.  At  Esher  both 
turned  instinctively  to  the  window  as  the  name  of  the 
station  leapt  past.  Before  the  rush  of  memories  of  Thra- 
cian  Sea's  gallant  struggles  up  the  Sandown  hill,  evoked 
by  the  sight  of  the  white  rails  and  now  deserted  stands, 
the  more  tender  atmosphere  of  love  was  dispersed  for  a 
while,  and  they  fought  the  horse's  battles  over  again. 

Presently  she  asked:  "Who  do  you  think  really  joined 
us  together,  Jim?  God  or  Thracian  Sea?" 

He  laughed  at  the  strangeness  of  her  question.  She 
did  ask  rum  questions  at  times,  he  thought  to  himself. 
Then,  uncertain  how  she  would  take  any  levity  on  his  part 
and,  realizing  the  difficulty  of  his  position,  he  referred 
her  to  an  oft  appealed  to  and  popularly  supposed  to  be 
extremely  erudite  Principle : 

"Goodness  knows,  dear!"  he  said. 

Her  dark  eyes  seemed  to  grow  darker — their  habit 
when  she  pondered  deeply. 

"God?" — and  she  nudged  his  arm. 

"Well  .  .  .  Yes,  I  suppose  so!"  he  answered. 

"But  Thracian  Sea  must  have  his  share  of  the  credit," 
she  insisted. 


206  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"Oh,  rather  I" 

"Jiml" 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Do  you  believe  in  God?" 

"Eh?  Oh,  yes,  I  suppose  so!  I  don't  worry  my 
head  about  that  sort  of  thing  as  a  rule,  Helen.  Why? 
You  don't  want  me  to  take  religion,  do  you,  dear?" 

She  was  thinking  of  Mervyn  Ingestre  at  the  church 
after  their  wedding.  The  man's  pale  face  and  dark 
eyes  recurred  to  her  in  a  strangely  persistent  manner. 
Her  conception  of  curates  as  a  class  was  the  conventional 
one.  Mervyn  Ingestre  was  refused  admission  thereto 
when  she  attempted  to  classify  him. 

"But  .  .  .  Jim!" 

"Yes,  darling?" 

"I  suppose  you  think  about  it  sometimes,  don't  you?" 

"Ye-s,"  he  answered,  rather  dubiously. 

"What  do  you  think  of,  Jim?  Tell  me!"  she  said — 
adding:  "I  really  know  very  little  of  my  husband's 
tastes." 

"Think  of?  Oh,  lots  of  things!  You  mostly,"  he 
replied  tenderly. 

"But  other  things,  dear?    Tell  me." 

He  looked  away,  musing  for  a  few  moments,  then : 

"Well,   then  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Oh,  love  and  ...  and  .  .  ." 

"But  love  means  me,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,  darling,  rather.  Oh,  /  don't  know!  Thracian 
Sea,  and  .  .  .  Oh,  lots  of  things,  don't  you  know!" 

James  had  really  an  aversion  to  thinking  at  all,  except 
on  such  matters  as  he  had  specified.  His  stock  of  sub- 
jects was  somewhat  limited. 

"But  such  things  as  Art,  Literature,  Philosophy,  Sci- 
ence, Religion?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  have  had  any  time  for  that  sort  of 
thing,  somehow,  since  I  came  down  from  Cambridge,"  he 
said  rather  lamely. 

"Did  you  do  well  there,  dear?" 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  207 

"Oh — er — yes,  pretty  fair — that  is  ...  No,  beastly 
badly!"  he  blurted  out  at  last,  deeming  honesty  the  best 
policy  and  fearing  his  wife  would  inveigle  him  into  a  dis- 
cussion on  a  variety  of  matters  which  he  classified  under 
the  generic  title  of  "Rot."  Then  he  went  on  hurriedly — 
not  without  secret  misgivings: 

"But,  of  course,  I  shall  get  jolly  keen  on  them  if  they 
interest  you,  dear!" 

Helen  Burkett's  intellect  was  .  .  .  But  I  refrain 
from  a  comparison  of  doubtful  significance  in  these  days 
of  intellectual  femininity.  Without  in  any  way  being 
"blue,"  she  was  a  woman  of  considerable  mental  culture — 
in  which  respect  her  husband  was  a  veritable  ignoramus 
beside  her.  She  had  known  him  long  enough  to  be  able 
to  gauge  the  caliber  of  his  mind,  and  she  was  not  very 
hopeful,  but  she  replied: 

"I  hope  you  will,  Jim. 

"For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain." 

"Shakespeare,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  dear — Tennyson." 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course!  I'm  weak  on  poetry,  rather," 
said  Jim.  It  was  a  particular  species  of  "rot"  which  he 
did  not  understand — with  the  exception  of  some  of  the 
more  amorous  types — and  he,  therefore,  felt  safe  in  clas- 
sifying it  under  that  heading.  He  had  an  impression  that 
it  was  "effeminate,"  his  ideas  and  ideals  of  "manliness" 
being  unconsciously  humorous.  The  Physical  was  the 
dominant  note  in  them.  Strength — in  which  homo  is 
equaled  or  excelled  by  his  nearest  kindred,  the  largest 
anthropoids,  not  to  mention  all  or  most  of  the  larger  ver- 
tebrates; Speed — in  which  even  a  "nine  seconds  man,"  if 
he  ever  exists,  will  be  hopelessly  inferior  to  such  insig- 
nificant animals  as  L.  timidus;  Activity  and  Agility- — in 
which  all  the  quadrumana,  without  exception,  are  his  su- 
periors. His  conceptions  of  the  Intellectual  were  equally 
peculiar.  The  cunning  of  the  city  or  racing  sharp  passed 


208  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

with  him  for  such:  he  would  have  rated  the  ordinary 
company  promoter  somewhere  below  Shakespeare  in  in- 
tellect, perhaps,  but  certainly  above  such  poets  as  Shelley. 
Its  Simian  origin  betrayed  itself,  and  exemplified  the 
theory  of  Descent,  in  his  sense  of  conscious  humor — buf- 
foonery with  him  generally  passing  for  that  quality,  al- 
though the  monkey  house  at  Regent's  Park,  which  is  in- 
finitely "funnier"  than  any  human  comicalities,  was  a 
place  that  he  had  not  visited  since  childhood. 

"I've  read  'Don  Juan' !"  he  added,  laughing. 

"Naughty,  Jim!"  she  said,  pretending  to  be  horrified. 
As  she  said  it  she  would  have  liked  to  have  shocked  a 
certain  person  other  than  her  husband  by  an  exhibition  of 
wantonness. 

"Have  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh!  Oh!"  he  laughed  boisterously.  "I  am  shocked!" 
— turning  to  her  with  a  mock  assumption  of  righteous- 
ness. "I  can  see  I  shall  have  to  act  the  stern  moralist  in 
future  and  exercise  a  rigid  censorship  over  my  wife's 
literary  recreations !" 

"Well,  dear  ...  I  suppose  you  think  with  Mrs. 
Grundy  that  if  women  cannot  be  content  with  murder  mys- 
teries, forgeries,  burglaries,  robberies,  arsons,  and  all 
the  other  nice  elevating  amusements  of  that  kind,  without 
wanting  to  read  about  things  of  passion  which  may  pos- 
sibly have  something  of  the  beautiful  and  romantic  in 
them,  they  had  better  not  read  about  anything  at  all.  Not 
that  I  consider  Don  Juan  possesses  many  such  qualities, 
but  .  .  .  There  ij  only  one  kind  of  immorality  in  litera- 
ture for  dear  delightful  British  Respectability!"  The 
contemplation  of  her  future  existence  in  the  tents  of  the 
Philistines  wrung  her  at  times,  but  she  recognized  ^the 
illogicality — even  for  a  woman — of  resentment  against 
a  life  of  her  own  choosing. 

She  did  not  disguise  from  herself  for  a  moment  her 
original  motives  toward  him.  She  had  determined  to 
"make  him  a  good  wife"  to  the  best  of  her  ability,  but 
she  felt  so  her  own  intellectual  superiority  that  she  re- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  209 

alized  that  to  sink  her  individuality  too  much  would  do 
more  harm  than  good.  Also,  she  felt  a  little  over- 
wrought. 

"I  hope,  Jim,  you  will  not  consider  it  an  essential  in 
our  matrimonial  scheme  of  things  for  me  to  emulate  the 
achievements  in  the  calumny-distributing  line  of,  say,  our 
friend  Miss  Price,  for  example?" 

James  had  become  suddenly  quiet  at  her  remarks  re- 
specting things  of  passion — thinking  of  Margaret.  By 
Gad!  There  was  nothing  narrow-minded  about  his  wife, 
thank  God!  he  ejaculated  mentally.  At  her  last  sentence, 
therefore,  he  burst  out  angrily  with : 

"What!  Has  the  infernal  woman  been  telling  lies 
about  you,  dear?" 

"Oh,  /  don't  mind,  Jim !  I  thought  it  right  to  mention 
it,  however" — seeing  in  the  circumstance  the  germ  of 
possible  trouble. 

On  rushed  the  express  after  a  few  minutes'  halt  at 
Salisbury,  where  they  procured  and  discussed  the  contents 
of  a  tea-basket. 

As  the  changing  features  of  the  landscape  slid  past, 
man  and  wife  sat  side  by  side  watching  the  lengthening 
shadows  and  the  slow  transition  of  a  glorious  afternoon 
into  a  still  more  glorious  evening  in  long  intervals  of 
silence.  Through  it  the  steady  throb  of  the  engine  and 
the  rhythmical  punctuation  of  the  wheels  over  the  rail 
sections  sounded  to  James  Burkett  like  a  sympathetic  ac- 
companiment to  the  music  of  his  own  pulses,  as  the  train 
bore  them  onward  to  the  consummation  of  his  desire. 

To  his  wife  the  fleeting  vista  of  the  country-side, 
the  noise  of  the  train  became  things  unseen,  unheard,  as 
introspection  revealed  to  her 

That  strangest  birth  of  silence — 
The  silent  birth  of  dreams. 

On, — to  the  ancient  city  of  Exeter:  on, — through  the 
heart  of  dear  old  Devon,  wonderful  with  hawthorn  and 


210  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

fruit  blossom — past  hamlets  nestling  among  wooded  out- 
of-the-way  corners  of  our  English  land;  thickets — 
through  which  long  beams  of  golden  light  burned  upon 
waves  of  wild  hyacinth  and  the  young  green  of  fern :  on 
— through  the  winding  valley  of  the  Taw  and  the  falling 
dusk,  until  the  train  slowed  down  into  Barnstaple.  On 
again, — over  the  river  and  along  the  low  flat  shores  of 
the  estuary,  across  which  the  lights  of  Appledore  began 
to  flicker  now  as  darkness  settled  down  upon  land  and 
sea;  up  the  steep  banks  of  the  line  to  the  little  station 
at  the  top;  and  then — a  rush  and  a  swerve  through  the 
dark,  and  James  got  up  and  looked  at  his  watch,  and 
bent  down  and  kissed  his  wife;  and,  in  a  few  minutes, 
they  were  in  a  fly,  under  a  sky  ablaze  with  stars,  and  with 
the  lights  of  Ilfracombe  shining  below  them. 

"Tired,  dear?'; 

She  squeezed  his  hand  for  reply,  and  sat  silently  star- 
ing with  her  great  eyes  at  the  splendor  of  the  night — lis- 
tening to  the  low  echo  of  the  sea  and  the  voices  of  her 
heart. 

James  felt  her  hand  in  his  tremble  as  they  pulled  up 
at  their  hotel. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

ODYSSEUS  APPEARS  IN  NORTH  DEVON 

EVEN  that  large  and,  generally  speaking,  prosperous 
class  of  people  whose  love  is  of  that  particular  quality 
which — too  precious  to  run  the  possible  risk  of  being 
wasted  upon  an  unworthy  object — concentrates  itself  in- 
wardly, suffer  from  a  certain  amount  of  Myopia  as  re- 
gards their  own  faults  and  failings. 

Love  is  a  disorder  proverbially  accompanied  by  op- 
tical derangement  in  the  victim ;  and  the  blindness  induced 
in  young  men  and  maidens  suffering  from  the  complaint 
differs  only  in  degree  from  that  of  more  experienced  per- 
sons, who,  according  to  some  authorities,  "ought  to  know 
better." 

Damsels  of  sweet  seventeen  and  upward  have  seen 
Mark  Antonys  in  music  masters,  and  imagined  them- 
selves budding  Cleopatras;  when,  finding  their  hand 
squeezed  one  day  by,  perhaps,  a  certain  Mr.  Spiggles, 
of  "Spiggles'  Flower  of  London  Linoleum"  fame,  they 
have  shed  their  few  incipient  scales  of  the  Serpent  of 
Old  Nile,  and  become  Mrs.  Spiggles  and  highly  respecta- 
ble— wondering  how  they  could  have  ever  preferred  Old 
Romance  to  Oilcloth;  until,  visiting  The  Emporium  years 
afterward,  they  have  suddenly  discerned  a  Lancelot  lurk- 
ing in  the  knightly  graces  of  a  shopwalker,  and  have  com- 
menced reading  The  Idylls  on  the  sly. 

The  immortal  Mr.  Weller  has  warned  us  against  the 
deadly  darkness  which  falls  upon  the  sight  of  man  when 
widows  are  about — the  latter,  perhaps,  possessing  some 
quality  akin  to  the  cuttlefish  in  their  condition,  which  ren- 
ders their  machinations  invisible. 
211 


212  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Under  the  mental  and  optical  obscurity  so  largely  in- 
dicative of  the  presence  of  the  disease,  surly  swains  in  a 
fit  of  the  sulks  have  appeared  as  Achillean  heroes  brood- 
ing in  their  tents.  Artists  and  poets — falling  in  love  at 
first  sight,  and  thereby  losing  their  own  entirely,  as  is 
the  nature  of  such  foolish  and  "out-of-date"  creatures — 
have  discovered  the  beauty  and  the  nobility  of  many 
Aphrodites  and  Andromaches,  to  the  infinite  edification  of 
the  young  women's  lady  friends,  and  to  their  own  ulti- 
mate amazement  or  disaster. 

Against  the  malady  no  prophylactic  has  as  yet  been 
discovered.  While  the  first  attack  renders  some  consti- 
tutions immune  from  a  second,  in  many  instances  it  recurs 
from  time  to  time  with  such  frequency  that  it  can  only  be 
regarded  as  a  chronic  form.  In  violent  cases,  where  the 
disease  is  deep-seated,  the  only  drug  capable  of  effecting 
a  permanent  cure  is  one  not  to  be  found  in  the  British 
Pharmacopoeia, — Disillusionment.  Even  then  many  suf- 
ferers who  have  been  healed  by  a  course  of  this  treat- 
ment have  stated  that  they  preferred  the  complaint  to 
the  remedy. 

Helen  Darell  had  fallen  in  love  with  James  Burkett 
for  a  reason  she  both  knew  and  understood.  Most  cer- 
tainly it  was  not  that  kind  of  love  into  which  mortals  fall 
without  any  knowable  reason  or  logical  process  whatever, 
without  any  cause  save  a  primal  instinct  springing  from 
some  mysterious  workings  of  flesh  and  spirit — agents  In 
a  conspiracy  for  disordering  the  sight  of  the  sexes  which 
is  probably  coeval  with  human  time  itself,  and,  without 
which,  Humanity  would,  in  all  probability,  have  solved 
all  its  problems  by  the  simple  method  of  ceasing  to  exist. 

Before  she  had  married  him  she  had  been  under  no 
illusion  as  to  his  real  nature  and  temperament:  she  had 
determined  to  love  him  because  she  had  early  realized 
that  he  would  be  incapable  of  inspiring  love  in  her  soul 
without  assistance  from  herself,  and  her  own  clear  mind 
wisely  foresaw  the  necessity  for  making  the  best  of  things. 
As  she  had  determined  to  marry  him  for  a  reason — so, 
for  a  reason,  she  had  determined  to  love  him,  and,  so 


"THRAC1AN  SEA"  213 

far,  she  had  succeeded.  But,  as  she  felt  she  could  take 
credit  to  herself  for  the  results  of  her  own  will-power — 
so  she  had  been  ready  to  admit  (to  herself)  his  influence 
over  her  when  passion  had  awakened.  However  much 
her  own  mind  had  to  do  with  it,  she  could  not  disguise 
from  herself  that  he  had  been  the  instrument  which  had 
awakened  her,  and,  woman-like,  to  her  the  sense  of  his 
sudden  domination  had  invested  him  with  a  romantic  ele- 
ment previously  lacking,  and  really  non-existent,  save  in 
a  very  slight  degree,  in  his  character.  She  had,  so  to 
speak,  done  her  level  best  to  invite  infection,  and,  at  this 
point,  the  disorder  had  obtained  sufficient  hold  in  her  sys- 
tem to  attack  and  derange  her  sensual  and  psychic  facul- 
ties in  the  usual  way. 

Her  marriage  had  altered  both  her  life  and  her  rela- 
tions with  him  to  the  extent  that  her  husband  had  become, 
for  the  time,  a  being  whom  she  was  ready  and  anxious 
to  honor  with  all  the  forces  of  her  nature — physical  and 
intellectual. 

When,  therefore,  on  the  morning  following  their 
bridal  night,  after  they  had  had  a  swim  and  strolled  up 
to  the  flagstaff  on  Capstan  Hill,  he  had  suggested  a  drive 
along  the  wild  and  beautiful  coast  toward  Lynton,  she 
had  assented  with  a  delight  through  which  her  longing 
to  be  alone  with  him,  among  more  romantic  surroundings 
than  those  of  a  crowded  and  fashionable  watering-place, 
shone  a  vital  vivid  thing,  as  she  gazed  half  shyly  at  him 
from  beneath  her  crimson  sunshade.  He  jumped  up  from 
the  seat  on  which  they  were  sitting,  with  a  laugh;  and, 
leaving  her,  hurried  off  for  a  luncheon  basket  and  a  trap 
— telling  her  to  come  on  to  the  hotel  at  her  leisure  in 
about  half  an  hour. 

She  followed  him  with  fondly  passionate  eyes  until 
he  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  looked  at  her  watch.  It 
was  half  past  eleven,  and  a  golden  day  drew  to  its  con- 
summation of  noontide  splendors  beneath  a  cloudless 
vault  of  azure  heaven.  On  either  side,  to  east  and  west, 
stretched  the  North  Devon  cliffs  and  hills,  the  more  dis- 
tant shrouded  in  a  purple  haze.  Away  to  the  north  the 


214  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

bright  blue  and  green  wastes  of  the  Bristol  Channel  faded 
into  paler  tints  through  which  loomed  the  far-off  coast 
of  Wales. 

She  sat  on,  letting  her  body  steep  itself  in  the  sun, 
her  flesh  still  tingling  with  the  salt  kiss  of  the  waves  from 
her  recent  bath.  Through  her  white  cotton  frock  the 
rays  filtered  with  a  pleasant  heat,  and  she  leaned  back 
on  the  seat  with  all  her  senses  quickening  with  the  joy 
of  life. 

Sea-wind  and  sun,  and  the  sound  of  the  tide  below 
curling  in  under  a  light  northwest  breeze !  It  was  very 
good  to  be  alive,  and  a  young  wife — she  had  never  lived 
before — and  Jim  had  made  her  very  happy !  She  flushed 
as  she  thought  of  her  husband,  and  her  beautiful  eyes 
glowed  with  a  purple  tinge  between  their  half  closed 
lids  as  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  joy  of  life  within  and 
without  her. 

Had  she  lived  a  thousand  years  before  (and,  in  a 
sense,  she  may  have  so  lived)  she  had  been  one  of  that 
tribe  of  women  whose  star-sign  glowed  upon  still  white 
lips  and  sightless  staring  eyes,  upon  stark  limbs  stiffen- 
ing in  the  stone-cold  dusks  of  death,  upon  mothers  stricken 
childless  of  their  sons;  a  woman  around  whose  feet  had 
surged  and  broken  in  bloody  fret  the  jealous  rage  of  the 
male,  and  whose  path  below  her  span  of  days  had  been, 
ere  her  passing,  heavy  with  crimson  >mists — the  after- 
glow of  bloody  love  in  death  and  death  in  love;  a  woman 
for  whom  men  had  drained  their  veins  for  a  smile  and 
lost  their  souls  for  a  kiss. 

As  it  was,  most  of  the  men  who  passed  her,  as  she 
sat  there  dreaming  over  the  green-blue  sea,  turned  to 
look  at  her  again.  More  than  one  retraced  their  steps 
and  took  up  various  positions  from  whence  they  could 
study  the  strange  woman's  beauty.  An  elderly  wreck,  his 
face  full  of  weariness  and  women  and  drink;  a  youth 
with  lofty  forehead  and  weak  eyes  that  peered  uncer- 
tainly from  behind  his  glasses  in  the  strong  light;  a  gen- 
tleman of  sporting  aspect  in  a  suit  of  almost  audible 
checks;  a  fair-haired  giant  of  the  type  that  shines  over 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  215 

the  Championship  course  from  Putney  to  Mortlake  at 
about  "No.  6";  all  began  their  several  worship  at  her 
shrine  at  distances  varying  from  ten  to  twenty  yards. 

Their  adoration  was  unnoticed  by  its  object:  her  soul, 
flushed  for  flight  from  the  strong  wine  of  sun  and  sea- 
sweet  wind,  had,  on  the  pinions  of  Fancy,  swept  across 
the  sea  spaces  before  her  to  a  memory-land  of  dreams, 
where  she  had  lain  in  her  lover's  arms  for  the  first  time 
and  was  content.  Jim  filled  her  skies :  he  was  in  the  sun 
and  wind  and  sea;  and  his  kisses  lingered  yet  upon  her 
lips  and  eyes.  That  it  was  not  James  Burkett,  her  hus- 
band, she  stoutly  refused  to  believe. 

One  of  the  male  sex  awakened  her  from  her  dreams, 
and  received  both  a  smile  and  a  kiss  for  his  pains,  al- 
though in  neither  would  her  husband  have  found  any 
cause  for  jealousy  or  complaint.  A  sun-brown  boy  of 
some  three  years  old  had  approached  the  beautiful  lady, 
and,  finding  that  his  offering  of  sea  shells  which  he  held 
out  to  her  went  unnoticed,  he  suddenly  emptied  his  tin 
pail  full  of  them  over  her  feet,  and  looked  up  at  her 
with  round  eyes  and  mouth  which  framed  an  unintelligi- 
ble but  evidently  propitiatory  word. 

James  had  hastily  collected  the  materials  for  their 
impromptu  pic-nic,  and  was  critically  examining  the  cob  in 
a  comfortable  Ralli  car  outside  the  hotel  when  she  ar- 
rived. He  went  in  and  fetched  a  coat  for  her;  and  they 
were  soon  on  the  road  to  Coombe  Martin.  The  long 
street  of  that  village  passed,  James  unfolded  his  plans, 
which  were  simple  and  such  as  greatly  appealed  to  his 
wife.  They  were:  to  drive  as  far  as  the  Hunter's  Inn, 
put  up  the  trap,  and  follow  the  cliff  path  above  Heddon's 
Mouth,  over  High  Veer,  and  on  toward  Lynton,  until 
they  found  a  convenient  place  in  the  cliffs  in  which  to  lunch 
and  spend  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

They  reached  the  Inn  by  half  past  one ;  and  soon  after 
two  o'clock  they  had  passed  the  waterfall,  and  James 
was  unpacking  the  basket  with  hasty  hands;  declaring  his 
appetite  to  be  something  really  awful. 


2i6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

They  had  washed  down  their  lunch  with  some  rather 
tepid  claret;  and,  after  smoking  a  couple  of  pipes,  James 
began  to  evince  distinct  symptoms  of  drowsiness  as  he 
lay  prone  on  the  soft,  sweet-scented  turf.  His  wife  sat 
beside  him,  holding  her  sunshade  over  their  two  heads, 
and  bending  her  face  to  his  from  time  to  time  in  obe- 
dience to  his  often  expressed  desire.  Presently  his  eyes 
closed;  and  she  sat  studying  his  face  in  silence  for  a  while, 
lost  in  her  own  waking  dreams. 

"Jim,"  she  said  softly. 

He  murmured  something;  and  she  sat  quiet  again. 

"Jim!"  she  repeated  in  a  louder  voice,  but  no  reply 
came. 

She  bent  over  him,  watching  the  easy  rise  and  fall  of 
his  broad  chest  under  his  thin  summer  shirt.  He  was 
clad  in  gray  flannels,  without  a  waistcoat,  and  had  thrown 
his  hat  aside.  He  lay  on  his  back,  with  his  head  resting 
on  a  little  hummock  of  turf — his  long  limbs  stretched  out 
lazily  in  the  sun — fast  asleep. 

Bees  droned  in  the  grasses  and  the  cliff  flowers;  the 
wind  bore  the  cadence  of  the  sighing  sea  beaches  below 
them  up  the  face  of  the  cliff  to  her  ears  as  she  sat  listening 
— expectingly,  to  judge  by  the  tense  expression  of  her 
whole  attitude. 

Suddenly  an  extraordinary  change  swept  over  the 
girl's  face  as  she  gazed  seaward.  She  turned  noiselessly 
and  watched  her  husband  for  a  moment — carefully  hold- 
ing, with  one  hand,  the  sunshade  so  as  to  prevent  any 
sudden  beam  of  the  fierce  sunlight  from  falling  on  his 
eyes  and  thereby  awakening  him ;  with  her  other  she  re- 
moved her  large  straw  hat.  Then,  shaking  and  throw- 
ing back  her  head  two  or  three  times  in  pleasure,  and 
running  her  hand  caressingly  over  and  among  the  masses 
of  her  shining  black  hair,  iridescent  in  the  sun,  she  gave 
a  curious  laugh — a  wave  of  crimson  dyeing  her  face  and 
throat  above  the  neck  of  her  white  dress,  as  if  overflow- 
ing from  the  petals  of  the  dark  red  rose  fastened  at  her 
breast. 

She  would  not  have  awakened  him  for  the  world.    In 


THRACIAN  SEA"  217 


the  past  she  had  often  conceived  such  a  scene  as  this 
from  a  young  girl  onward  until  she  had  married  the  man 
beside  her.  If  there  was  something  wanting  in  him  to 
complete  the  picture  of  her  dreams,  she  would  supply 
it  from  her  own  imagination!  Her  face  had  grown  al- 
most fierce,  and  her  great  eyes  glowed  down  upon  the 
prostrate  James  as  if  they  would  hypnotize  the  slum- 
berer's  brain  into  a  prolonged  sleep ;  half  unconsciously 
she  was  hypnotizing  him.  She  would  not  be  balked  of 
her  desire!  It  was  just  as  she  had  wished  it  to  be,  while 
he  slept — if  he  awoke  he  might  break  the  spell  with  a 
luckless  remark. 

The  deep  blue  of  the  sky;  the  emerald,  black,  and 
purple  cliffs ;  the  flash  of  the  sea-birds  as  they  cleft  with 
sun-shot  pinions  the  spaces  of  golden  light  above  a  sap- 
phire and  green  sea,  or  rose  against  the  pale  violet  haze 
of  distance;  but  for  the  modern  note  of  their  garments 
the  man  and  the  woman  might  have,  in  their  setting  of 
sea  and  landscape,  provided  a  fair  picture  of  a  dark 
haired  Calypso  watching  a  sleeping  and  youthful  Odys- 
seus in  her  magic  isle. 

Her  ideals  had  been  cast  in  heroic  mold;  and,  as  she 
sat  gazing  at  her  sleeping  love,  his  gray  flannels  changed 
into  a  purple  mantle,  and  James  Burkett,  Esq.,  of  Wim- 
bledon Park,  into  such  an  one  as  Laertes'  immortal  son. 
Her  hand  sought  his  where  it  lay  on  the  grass  at  his 
side — her  fingers  closing  upon  it  with  a  great  gentleness 
for  fear  of  awakening  him.  He  stirred  slightly  at  her 
touch,  and  she  sat  rigid  as  a  statue;  the  only  life  show- 
ing in  her  the  fire  of  passion  in  her  eyes.  Then,  as  he 
slept  on  peacefully,  her  head  bent  down  slowly  over  his 
face — her  mouth  trembling  with  longing  above  his  slightly 
parted  lips.  She  resisted  the  temptation,  lest  her  kiss 
should  arouse  him :  her  burning  eyes,  blushing  face,  and 
heaving  breast  reflecting  the  inward  struggle  as  she  raised 
her  head  again. 

She  was  no  longer  a  nineteenth  century  young  woman 
with  a  husband  in  the  city:  she  had  forgotten  a  future 
that  wore  white  waistcoats:  her  soul  had  detached  itself 


2i 8  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

from  the  commonplaces  of  everyday  existence  and  flown 
back  into  the  past — crouching  by  her  lord  on  the  un- 
trodden coasts  of  the  Ogygia  of  her  dreams. 

A  botanist  might  have  discovered  something  of  an 
analogy  to  her  metamorphosis  in  the  yellow  flowers  and 
thick  glaucous  leaves  of  the  Sea  Colewort  blowing  close 
to  the  sleeping  man's  head.  That  ancestor  of  the  pro- 
saic purple  cabbage  of  our  modern  kitchen  gardens  still 
grows  wild  on  the  cliffs  of  North  Devon,  and  its  domes- 
ticated descendants,  if  left  to  themselves  in  the  original 
habitat  of  their  progenitors  by  the  sea  shore,  revert,  in 
a  few  generations,  to  their  earlier  type. 

An  hour  passed,  and  another,  and  still  the  man  slept 
on;  the  woman,  scarcely  conscious  of  the  discomfort  in 
her  limbs  produced  by  her  cramped  position,  still  clasp- 
ing his  hand  and  bending  over  him  from  time  to  time,  or 
gazing  out  to  sea  with  her  strange  rapt  eyes.  She  was 
hardly  aware  of  her  own  thoughts:  only  she  dimly  re- 
alized that  the  future  would — could — hold  few  such  hours 
as  this,  hours  into  which  she  was  crowding  a  lifetime  of 
the  emotions  of  an  ordinary  civilized  "young  lady."  So 
intense  was  her  mood,  so  complete  her  exaltation  in  the 
consummation  of  her  ideal,  that,  had  such  a  thing  been 
possible,  and  Hermes  had  appeared  to  her  with  an  ir- 
revocable mandate  from  Olympus,  and  Odysseus  had 
arisen  and  departed  over  the  sea,  she  would  probably — 
after  a  last  farewell — have  haunted  the  spot  for  the  re- 
mainder of  her  days,  living  on  the  passionate  memories 
of  an  hour  perpetuated  by  the  scene  of  the  occurrence, 
rather  than  contemplate  anything  of  the  realities  of  an 
existence  which  might  have  dimmed  the  ardors  of  what 
once  had  been. 

To  a  woman  of  modern  conventional  temperament, 
Helen  Burkett's  feelings  toward  her  husband  would  have 
appeared  as  madly  impossible  as  they  were  immodest. 
Her  husband  himself  would  have  been  quite  unable  to  ap- 
preciate the  character  of  the  emotions  he  had  inspired, 
and,  as  she  knew,  might  have  unconsciously  destroyed 
their  spell. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  219 

At  last  the  strain  became  too  much  for  her,  and, 
trembling  with  eagerness,  she  suddenly  bent  down  to  his 
upturned  face,  and  her  lips  shut  upon  his  and  clung  there. 
As  his  brown  eyes  opened  she  started  back  again  and 
blushed  furiously. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  lay  still — gazing  up  at  her, 
wondering,  then  he  yawned  and  sat  up;  and  a  shadow- 
less  Odysseus  stood  at  the  cliff's  edge  in  the  sunshine 
preparing  to  depart. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear!  I've  been  asleep!"  He  looked  at 
the  sun  and  took  out  his  watch.  "Good  Lord!"  he  ejacu- 
lated, "it's  five  o'clock!  It  must  have  been  the  heat! 
Have  you  been  asleep,  too?" 

He  felt  rather  irritable  and  bad  tempered — the  result 
of  sleeping  in  the  sun  after  consuming  the  best  part  of  a 
luncheon  pie,  innumerable  sandwiches,  and  a  bottle  of 
claret. 

Odysseus  vanished  into  thin  air.  "Ye-s,  dear  .  .  . 
Part  of  the  time." 

"My  darling!  You  must  have  thought  me  an  un- 
mannerly brute !  Why  didn't  you  dig  me  in  the  ribs  with 
this,  and  wake  me  up?"  and  he  held  up  an  empty  claret 
bottle,  to  fling  it  next  moment  down  the  slope. 

Ogygia  became  Hampstead  Heath;  and  she  turned 
her  face  from  him,  biting  her  lip  hard  on  words  of  an  il- 
logical anger. 

Thinking  that  he  had  offended  her,  he  went  on  apolo- 
getically :  "I  am  sorry,  wife !  It  was  beastly  rude  of  me !" 

She  turned  to  him — her  eyes  tender  again.  "I  pre- 
ferred a — a  gentler  method." 

Something  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  never  seen  before 
arrested  his  attention,  and  he  lay  back  again,  meditatively 
studying  her  profile  as  he  slowly  filled  his  pipe. 

"Helen!" 

Her  eyes  clung  to  his  wistfully,  then  she  rose  and 
stretched  her  aching  limbs,  and  stamped  one  foot  that  was 
utterly  devoid  of  feeling,  and  waited  as  the  blood  crept 
tingling  back  into  it. 

"Pins  and  needles !"  she  said,  laughing  down  at  him. 


220  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

James  was  thirsty.  "Poor  old  dear !  You  must  want 
your  tea!"  he  answered. 

"N-o,  Jim." 

The  claret  was  all  gone.     He  sighed. 

The  memory  of  Odysseus  still  lingered  about  him ;  she 
sank  down  again  on  the  grass  by  his  side. 

"My  poor  thirsty  Jim!  And  we're  miles  from — any- 
where I"  She  blushed — Ithaca  had  been  on  the  tip  of  her 
tongue.  Then  she  remembered,  and  felt  behind  her  for 
the  basket.  There  was  half  a  bottle  of  claret  left,  under 
a  serviette;  she  had  put  it  by  carefully  for  him  after  their 
lunch — wise  in  her  prevision  of  the  eternal  thirstiness 
of  the  male.  At  the  thought  her  own  throat  became 
parched.  She  drew  out  the  bottle  from  its  hiding  place 
triumphantly,  and  held  it  out  to  him,  and  followed  it  with 
a  glass. 

James  held  the  bottle  up  to  the  light,  and,  after  a  pro- 
test from  her  that  she  didn't  want  any,  they  shared  it 
together.  When  he  had  lighted  his  pipe  he  felt  com- 
fortable again. 

"Helen!" 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Kiss  me  again  like  that!" 

His  wife's  face  went  scarlet,  and  she  looked  away 
in  silence  for  a  moment.  Then:  "Why,  dear?" 

"Because  I  like  it!"  He  laughed  easily — the  sense  of 
possession  strong  in  him  and  dulling  the  edge  of  his  eager- 
ness. 

A  sudden  resolution  took  her,  and  she  bent  over  him 
— her  eyes  full  of  a  something  he  did  not  understand. 
"Shut  your  eyes,  Jim,  and  have  another  nap,  and,  perhaps, 
I  will!" 

"No— now!" 

She  drew  back,  and  he  laughed. 

"All  right!"  and  he  feigned  slumber. 

As  his  eyes  closed  her  own  filled  with  their  former 
fierceness,  and  she  kissed  him  passionately.  She  was  star- 
ing hard  at  his  face  now,  and  already  the  hypnotic  in- 
fluence she  was  endeavoring  to  exert  over  him  was  begin- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  221 

ning  to  take  effect.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  murmured 
something,  then  shut  them  drowsily  and  gradually 
dropped  off  to  sleep  again. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh  of  triumph  and  content:  it 
was  to  be  as  she  had  willed  it!  She  would  watch  by 
him  until  the  sun  went  down  into  the  heart  of  the  western 
sea! 

Again  had  she  forgotten  everything  but  her  dreams 
and  that  Odysseus  was  once  more  by  her  side.  The  air 
grew  chill,  but  she  heeded  it  not;  the  sea  colors  faded 
into  a  uniform  pale  blue.  An  elderly  gentleman,  in  spec- 
tacles and  knickerbocker  suit,  came  along  the  path  be- 
hind where  they  were  lying,  followed  by  a  lady  of  similar 
age,  in  a  rustling  black  dress,  and  with  a  muslin  arrange- 
ment flapping  from  the  back  of  her  hat.  She  was  carry- 
ing a  number  of  plants  in  one  hand;  and  her  spouse  had 
a  botanical  vasculum  slung  behind  him. 

"B.  Oleracea!  Very  common  about  here!"  he  called 
out  to  his  companion,  as  he  caught  sight  of  a  lot  of  the 
Colewort  growing  beside  the  path.  He  had  not  noticed 
the  two  lying  behind  a  bush  in  a  slight  hollow  of  the  turf. 

His  more  observant  lady  had,  however,  and  her  eyes 
met  Helen's  as  the  girl  raised  them  mechanically  at  the 
sound  of  the  voices.  She  was  lying  partly  on  her  side 
with  her  body  raised  on  one  arm — the  other  resting  on 
her  husband's  chest  with  his  hand  clasped  in  hers. 

"Very  common,  Horace!"  the  elderly  lady  in  black 
answered  in  a  loud  voice  and  with  the  accent  sarcastic 
of  the  British  matron  outraged  in  her  sense  of  the  Pro- 
prieties and  the  eternal  fitness  of  things. 

Her  tone,  which  would  have  instantly  aroused  the 
goddess  of  battle  in  an  ordinary  woman,  was  lost  upon 
deaf  ears.  That  part  of  Helen  Burkett  which  did  see 
and  hear  them  did  not  consider  the  matter  of  sufficient 
importance  to  communicate  to  the  other  Helen,  who,  on 
the  storm-tossed  wings  of  spirit,  had  leapt  back  a  many 
thousand  years  and  crouched  in  fancy  beside  an  unknown 
lover  sleeping  beside  an  unknown  sea. 

The  west  became  bright  orange,  shaded  with  dusky 


222  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

purple  below,  into  which  the  sea  faded  imperceptibly. 
The  tide  was  making,  and  fell  with  a  low  sobbing  sigh 
at  the  feet  of  the  great  cliffs,  as  if  the  eternal  voices  of 
the  sea,  weary  with  wandering  through  the  endless 
streams  of  ocean,  expended  their  last  strength  in  that 
strange  burden  which  the  tide  sings  for  ever  to  the  shore. 
In  that  mighty  diapason  is  a  very  passion  of  pathos  when 
the  sea  makes  moan  at  twilight — when  the  strife  of  land 
and  sea  has  faded  to  a  sighing  breathing  the  spirit  of  an 
immemorial  regret.  Then  all  the  dead  in  the  sea  speak; 
and  the  shore  echoes  back  the  mourning  for  her  lost  chil- 
dren, children  of  the  mighty  Mother  herself,  between 
whose  knees  and  breasts  the  coils  of  ocean  cling. 

\Vhen    the   sea   makes    moan    at    twilight,    the    Mighty  Mother 

mourns 
For  her  children  dead  that  wander  through   the  shadows  of 

green  gloom, 

And  the  burden  of  her  calling  through  the  sea-song's  echo  yearns — 
For  their  restless  bones  were  part  of  her,  the  children  of  her 
womb. 

She  sat  on,  watching  with  unseeing,  far-off  eyes ;  and 
listening  to  the  tide.  Of  a  sudden  she  missed  the  red  disk 
of  the  sinking  sun,  and  she  awoke  from  her  dreams  and 
shivered  slightly.  She  roused  the  sleeping  man  with  a 
kiss — brushing  his  eyelids  with  her  lips  ere  she  did  so. 

He  sat  up  with  a  start,  feeling  chilly,  and  stared  at 
his  wife. 

"Why,  Helen,  I  believe  you're  a  witch!" 

She  hungered  to  feel  his  arms  about  her,  and  shivered 
again.  When  he  drew  her  to  him  lazily  she  lay  very  still, 
surprised  at  the  tired  feeling  that  had  suddenly  fallen 
upon  her,  body  and  soul. 

It  would  soon  be  over;  and,  somehow,  she  knew  the 
vision  would  never  come  to  her  again  after  to-day.  Well, 
she  had  had  her  romance,  and  she  would  do  her  duty  to 
him  in  the  future:  the  life  would  be  gray  and  colorless, 
by  contrast,  but  she  would  not  forget  what  he  had  been 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  223 

to  her  one  golden  evening  beside  the  western  sea.  She 
would  settle  down  into  a  pattern  of  suburban  respectabil- 
ity and  machine-made  matronhood. 

"I  believe  you're  a  witch,  Helen  I"  he  repeated. 

"Why,  dear?" 

"I  believe  you  hypnotized  me,  or  something  I  I've 
been  to  sleep  for  hours  again!" 

She  had  forgotten  her  own  share  in  inducing  his  slum- 
ber in  the  contemplation  of  the  prospect  that  the  future 
held  for  her.  With  her  awakened  nature  the  yearning  to- 
ward the  essential  things  of  life  peculiar  to  man,  and 
other  than  the  necessaries  to  mere  existence,  was  growing 
rapidly  upon  her.  She  felt  an  irresistible  longing  to  sat- 
urate herself  in  that  ineffable  mingling  with  the  mysteri- 
ous Spirit  of  Beauty  itself  which  makes  the  Ideal  in 
human  life  a  passionate  Reality  and  man  different  from 
the  brute — which  inspires  and  impels,  or  rather  which 
compels  poets  to  be  poets,  musicians  to  be  musicians,  and 
artists  to  be  artists: — the  desire  permeated  her  whole 
being.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer  him ;  then  she 
said: 

"You  were  tired,  Jim,  that  was  all." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  scarcely  realized  her  hyp- 
notic efforts  for  such.  The  strain  she  had  undergone  was 
beginning  to  tell  upon  her,  and,  overwrought  with  emo- 
tion, she  was  conscious  chiefly  of  a  great  weariness  and 
of  all  her  strength  leaving  her. 

"Kiss  me,  Jim,"  she  said  weakly. 

He  did  so,  once — then  many  times.  Odysseus  was 
about  to  leave  her  for  the  last  time,  and  she  clung  to  him 
with  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  despair  within  her  soul. 

He  was  surprised  at  the  change  in  her — her  whole  at- 
titude breathed  submissiveness.  It  was  already  getting 
dusk;  and  he  felt  her  shiver  once  or  twice  in  his  arms. 

He  reached  for  her  coat,  and  wrapped  it  round  her. 
"Come,  dear!  We'd  better  make  a  move — you'll  catch 
cold!" 

She  protested  strongly,  incoherently,  in  a  momentary 
flare  of  passion.  She  could  not  tell  him !  He  would  not 


224  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

understand,  and  would  place  a  totally  wrong  construction 
upon  it  all !  She  grew  hot  all  over,  and,  for  a  moment, 
her  desire  glowed  in  her  eyes  like  the  mist  of  a  far-off 
fire  at  night. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  he  asked  tenderly — 
searching  her  face  as  he  bent  over  her. 

For  answer  she  drew  her  husband's  face  down  to 
hers,  and  held  his  lips  tightly  to  her  own.  He  was  sur- 
prised to  find  how  cold  they  had  become.  Her  eyes  were 
closed:  she  lay  like  one  in  a  swoon — listening  to  the 
echoes  of  the  voices  of  a  phantom  sea. 

James  became  alarmed — she  was  so  quiet  and  still; 
but  when  he  made  to  release  himself  from  her  she  would 
not  let  him  go. 

It  was  very  late  that  night  when  they  reached  Ilfra- 
combe. 

Both  woke  with  what  promised  to  be  a  bad  cold  in  the 
head  next  morning — a  thing  peculiarly  trying  in  hot 
weather.  His  cold  made  James  irritable;  Helen's  made 
her  reminiscent  and,  as  she  knew  herself  responsible  for 
her  husband's  indisposition,  submissive,  since  penitence 
was  beyond  her. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

CALYPSO  AND  PENELOPE 

IT  was  a  week  later. 

All  the  previous  day  it  had  rained  in  torrents.  It 
was  still  pouring  steadily  from  a  thick,  unnatural  gloom 
in  the  sky. 

Their  colds  had  reached  the  stage  when  breathing  is 
difficult  and  handkerchiefs  soon  become  unpleasant  things. 
James  was  decidedly  bad-tempered  at  times  during  the 
morning. 

A  maid  brought  up  a  black-edged  letter  to  their  room. 
As  he  held  it  in  his  hand,  preparatory  to  opening  the  en- 
velope, he  said  sardonically,  "Well,  here's  something 
cheerful,  by  the  look  of  it!" 

"Who's  it  from?     Your  cousins?" 

It  had  been  owing  to  the  death  of  one  of  the  latter 
that  their  wedding  had  been  put  off,  that  had  taken  place 
in  the  fateful  month  for  marriage. 

James  read  it  through  slowly.  "No.  It's  poor  old 
Radleigh."  (Death  had  put  the  squire  down  hard,  one 
evening,  while  he  was  in  the  act  of  performing  that  of- 
fice for  the  red  ball.) 

"Radleigh?" 

"Ah.  Squire  Radleigh.  I  stopped  at  his  place  at 
Stoke  Midford — Ford  Hinton,  I  mean,  last  autumn.  He 
was  a  rum  old  boy.  Drank  like  a  fish.  A  good  old  sort 
in  his  way!  rest  his  bones.  He  had  a  fit.  He  was  play- 
ing billiards." 

He  found  a  sudden  inspiration  in  his  concluding  sen- 
tence, and  kept  back  the  yawn  that  was  beginning  in  him. 
225 


226  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

At  length  she  picked  up  a  book  and  turned  the  pages 
listlessly. 

He  watched  her  in  silence,  for  a  while,  then  he  rose, 
and  left  her  reading  at  the  window  of  their  sitting-room 
— an  occupation  she  varied  by  gazing  out  at  the  rain-ob- 
scured sea — and  repaired  to  the  billiard-room;  where  he 
was  beaten  by  the  marker  in  three  separate  "hundreds" — 
a  circumstance  which  did  not  tend  to  improve  his  temper. 

The  waiter  was  laying  the  table  for  lunch  when  he 
went  back  to  his  wife,  and,  after  consulting  the  wine  list, 
he  told  the  man  to  bring  up  a  couple  of  bottles  of  Pom- 
mery. 

"What  a  rotten  day!"  he  said  gloomily.  "Hope  you 
didn't  miss  me,  dear!" — suddenly  remembering  that  he 
had  been  away  from  her  for  the  greater  part  of  the  morn- 
ing. "I  saw  you  were  busy  with  your  book.  What  is  it?" 

She  laughed.  "No,  dear.  I  ordered  lunch  early  in 
case  it  should  clear  up  this  afternoon.  The  book?  Oh, 
you  wouldn't  care  about  it,  Jim — Homer's  Odyssey." 

"Lord,  what  a  girl  you  are!"  he  answered,  with  un- 
pleasant recollections  of  Greek  at  Cambridge.  James  had 
hated  Homer  with  a  deadly  hatred.  The  one  thing  he 
never  could  learn  was  Greek.  One  thing  he  never  did 
learn  was  that  he  had  personated  the  wandering  hero  on 
the  cliffs  near  Heddon's  Mouth  in  the  county  of  Devon. 

"I  reckon  they've  got  a  young  John  Roberts  here!" 
he  added  irrelevantly. 

"Why,  dear?  Did  you  tumble  up  against  something 
hot? — I  believe  that  is  the  correct  expression?" 

"Oh,  /  don't  know!  Rotten  cold!  Right  off  my 
game !"  he  replied  between  intervals  of  blowing  his  nose. 

He  consumed  a  large  quantity  of  champagne  at  lunch, 
and,  for  an  hour  afterward,  his  spirits  rose  to  an  almost 
boisterous  degree,  during  which  time  he  waxed  playful 
and  amorous  by  turns. 

Finding  his  wife  inclined  to  be  quiet,  at  length  he 
found  a  Racing  Calendar  and  book  of  form,  and,  stretch- 
ing himself  upon  a  couch,  commenced  trying  to  find  the 
winner  of  the  Royal  Hunt  Cup.  After  coming  to  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  227 

conclusion  that  quite  half  of  the  entries  had  no  earthly 
chance  whatever,  and  that  it  was  practically  a  certainty 
for  about  a  dozen  others,  he  threw  the  book  down  in  dis- 
gust. 

"Come  and  send  me  to  sleep !"  he  said,  after  silently 
watching  her  face  for  a  while. 

She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  book  questioningly,  and 
then  put  it  down  on  the  floor  beside  her  chair.  Obeying, 
she  came  over  to  him  and  sat  down  beside  him  on  the 
couch.  It  was  the  seventh  day  of  their  honeymoon,  and 
already  his  pleasure  in  her  society  was  beginning  to  wane, 
she  told  herself. 

"Talk  to  me,  dear,"  she  said  gently;  but  the  reaction 
of  the  wine  he  had  drunk  was  beginning  to  have  a  de- 
pressing effect  upon  his  spirits,  and  his  powers  of  conver- 
sation, never  very  great,  were  at  their  lowest  ebb.  He 
thought  of  Thracian  Sea,  but  the  horse  was  a  couple  of 
hundred  miles  away. 

She  waited  patiently  for  him  to  begin — conscious  of 
the  fact  that  of  intellectual  sympathy  between  them  there 
was  none.  Indeed,  she  began  to  doubt  if  there  ever  would 
be  any,  now.  Yet,  she  was  genuinely  anxious  to  prevent 
him  drifting  apart  from  her — she  would  have  done  any- 
thing in  her  power  to  help  him  acquire  a  knowledge  of 
subjects  where  they  could  meet  on  grounds  of  a  common 
interest. 

He  made  an  effort.    "What  shall  I  talk  about,  dear?" 

She  succeeded  in  repressing  her  smile.  It  was  an  old 
trick  of  his  which  generally  "came  off"  by  throwing  the 
onus  of  the  subject,  as  well  as  the  choice  of  it,  upon  her. 

"Whatever  you  like,  dear,"  she  replied  in  the  voice 
of  one  eager  to  listen  to  anything. 

"Well,  then  .  .  .  You!" — in  desperation,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  in  which  he  revolved  a  number  of  subject 
matters  in  his  mind,  and,  ultimately,  rejected  them  as  un- 
suitable. 

"You  silly  boy!"  she  said,  pleased  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  she  knew  it  was  his  own  dearth  of  imagination  which 
was  responsible  for  the  choice. 


228  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"I  say,  Helen,  I  think  you  look  rather  ripping  in  white 
— in  white  with  a  red  rose — like  you  were  that  day  on  the 
cliffs!"  She  was  in  darker  clothes  to-day. 

"Do  you,  dear?"  Her  mind  wandered  eastward 
through  the  rain,  along  the  cliffs  over  High  Veer,  and  she 
picked  up  the  thread  of  her  dreams  again. 

He  lay  silent  for  a  while.  "Get  me  the  cigarettes, 
Helen,  there's  a  dear!" 

She  rose  to  find  the  box,  without  success;  and  he 
jumped  up  to  aid  her  in  the  search.  As  he  crossed  the 
room  he  picked  up  the  open  book;  and  Helen  went  into 
their  bedroom  to  unearth  the  missing  cigarettes.  James 
threw  himself  on  to  the  couch  again,  and,  with  the 
Homer,  still  open,  in  his  hand,  lay  staring  at  nothing  in 
particular  until  she  returned  with  them.  She  gave  him 
a  light,  and  sat  down  by  his  side.  He  suddenly  remem- 
bered the  book  he  was  holding  and  commenced  to  read 
it.  She  had  neither  seen  him  pick  it  up  nor  noticed  him 
with  it — half  hidden  as  it  was  beneath  him  in  the  couch. 
Her  face  flushed  scarlet,  but  he  was  intent  on  the  lines  and 
did  not  notice  her  confusion.  He  read  on  for  a  minute  or 
two,  then  his  mind  wandered,  and,  dropping  it  beside 
him,  he  looked  up  at  her. 

At  his  unspoken  invitation  she  flung  her  arms  round 
him  and  kissed  him  tenderly. 

It  rained  steadily  right  through  the  evening — the  at- 
mosphere becoming  more  muggy  and  oppressive  every 
hour. 

Helen  could  not  sleep  that  night,  and  she  lay  watch- 
ing the  reflections  of  distant  lightning  far  off  over  the 
sea.  Presently  came  a  distinct  flash — the  storm  was  work- 
ing up  from  the  northwest.  Another  followed,  but  this 
time  the  whole  of  the  night  seemed  riven  from  the  zenith 
to  the  sea — split  down  a  jagged  line  of  pale  blue  fire. 
She  had  pulled  up  the  blind  and  opened  the  window  to 
let  as  much  air  as  possible  into  the  room  in  the  stifling 
heat.  As  the  room  lit  up  at  the  flash  James  stirred  un- 
easily in  his  sleep.  The  next  moment  the  whole  building 
seemed  to  shake  beneath  a  crackling  peal  of  thunder,  ap- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  229 

parently  directly  over  the  hotel,  which  rattled  the  win- 
dows, and  awoke  a  hundred  echoes  in  the  hollows  of  the 
cliffs  for  miles  in  each  direction. 

Helen  was  not  a  nervous  girl,  but  the  sight  and  sound 
had  been  so  awful  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  awaken- 
ing her  husband,  in  sheer  terror.  After  the  crash  he 
had  turned  over  in  his  sleep  without  waking,  and  kicked 
off  the  single  sheet  that  covered  them — it  was  still  very 
hot. 

"Margaret,  I  can't  help  it!" 

Her  hand,  which  had  been  stretched  out  to  waken 
him,  dropped  nervelessly  to  the  bed.  He  had  spoken 
the  name  quite  plainly,  and  his  voice,  vibrant  with  long- 
ing, had  sounded  to  her  startled  senses  like  a  cry  in  the 
night  across  the  silence  that  followed  the  thunder. 

Again  the  room  lit  up — revealing  her  sitting  up  in 
bed  and  staring  blankly  out  at  the  storm. 

The  name  of  the  other  woman  had  aroused  such  a 
tumult  within  her  that  she  had  forgotten  her  previous 
fears  at  the  one  raging  without,  where,  like  a  brand  in 
the  grasp  of  an  invisible  Titan,  afire  with  the  speed  of 
its  terrific  strokes,  the  lightning  was  gashing  and  splitting 
the  heart  of  the  dark.  In  fact,  the  elemental  strife 
seemed  a  fitting  background  for  her  thoughts — in  keep- 
ing with  a  conflict  in  which  her  whole  being  was  involved. 
She  sat  by  the  side  of  her  sleeping  mate  with  her  legs 
drawn  up  under  her.  Her  eyes  closed  tightly — she  could 
shut  out  the  lightning;  one  thing  she  could  not  shut  out 
— the  thing  that  leapt  at  her  out  of  the  night  and  stabbed 
and  rived  her  soul  with  pangs  of  jealous  pain. 

Margaret  was  avenged.  Odysseus  was  dreaming  of 
Penelope. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

MRS.  GHOOLE  LIVES  UP  TO  HER  REPUTATION 

MR.  GHOOLE,  who  was  in  the  Meat  Market,  was  a 
striking  contrast  in  every  respect  to  his  wife.  He  was  a 
little  fat  man,  with  a  mottled  red  complexion  and  easy- 
going habits — the  latter  emphasized  by  a  general  greasi- 
ness  which  had  spread  itself  over  him  until  he  gave  one 
the  impression  of  being  well  oiled  throughout,  both  men- 
tally and  physically.  Respected  in  Farringdon  Street,  in 
Plane  Tree  Avenue  but  little  deference  was  shown  to 
him;  nevertheless,  he  was  faithful  in  his  martyrdom  of 
marriage,  and  seldom  drank  to  excess. 

He  left  home  before  six  o'clock  in  the  morning;  and 
Margaret  had  to  get  up  at  five  to  get  his  breakfast.  He 
had  objected  mildly  to  this  at  first,  but  his  wife  dismissed 
his  protest  as  absurd.  The  girl's  willingness,  and  the  re- 
markable improvement  in  the  condition  of  his  eggs  and 
bacon  and  coffee,  greatly  impressed  Mr.  Ghoole  in  her 
favor.  Being  a  kind-hearted  little  man,  he  showed  his 
appreciation  by  a  fatherly  interest  in  the  girl,  which,  at 
length,  revealed  itself — through  one  or  two  little  acts  of 
kindness  toward  her — to  his  irascible  spouse.  (She  had 
never  forgiven  him  because  she  had  overheard  the  red- 
headed girl  tell  him  his  wife  wanted  a  worm-cake.) 

Mrs.  Ghoole's  suspicions  were  at  once  aroused  and 
she  startled  Margaret,  one  morning,  by  silently  appear- 
ing in  the  room  as  the  girl  was  in  the  act  of  pouring  out 
his  coffee. 

Margaret's  experiences  of  the  past  few  months  had 
reduced  her  to  a  highly  nervous  condition,  and  she  upset 
some  of  it  over  the  cloth. 

230 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  231 

That  was  enough  for  Mrs.  Ghoole,  who  at  once  con- 
cluded that  she  was  carrying  on  with  her  husband.  Of 
the  two  evils  Mrs.  Ghoole  chose  the  lesser,  whereby  he 
was  compelled  to  get  his  own  breakfast,  and  Margaret 
benefited  by  a  couple  of  hours  extra  in  bed.  Determined 
that  she  should  not  escape  her  share  in  the  punishment, 
Mrs.  Ghoole  henceforth  took  a  fiendish  pleasure  in  an- 
noying her  on  every  opportunity;  and,  finding  Margaret 
docile  under  the  treatment,  she  introduced,  by  way  of 
variety,  insults  into  her  regimen  as  well.  The  woman's 
maliciousness  defeated  its  own  object,  as  the  girl  became, 
in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  completely  callous  to  her 
mistress'  gibes  and  sneers. 

The  one  bright  spot  in  Margaret's  existence  now  was 
her  weekly  visit  to  Mrs.  Rush.  She  walked  over  to  Bal- 
ham  every  Sunday  afternoon,  and  had  tea  with  that  good 
dame  and  her  husband — her  only  outing  during  the  week. 

On  the  first  of  these  occasions  she  provided  Mrs. 
Rush  with  a  remarkable  vindication  of  her  prophecy. 
Forgetting  that  she  was  wearing  her  wedding  ring  (which 
she  had  kept  in  her  pocket  during  the  remainder  of  her 
stay  with  them  after  her  first  visit  to  Mrs.  Ghoole) ,  Mrs. 
Rush  plunged  her  into  dreadful  confusion  at  the  tea  ta- 
ble by  ejaculating:  "Lor,  I  didn't  know  you  were  mar- 
ried!" 

Margaret  explained  as  well  as  she  could:  she  had 
reasons  for  not  letting  anyone  know  before :  but  old  birds 
are  notoriously  indifferent  to  the  attractions  of  chaff,  and 
Mrs.  Rush  was  not  to  be  taken  in  by  the  flimsy  deceptions 
which  her  visitor  hastily  scattered  about  her. 

Mr.  Rush,  seeing  the  girl's  unhappiness,  adroitly 
changed  the  conversation;  and  Mrs.  Rush  was  too  kind- 
hearted  to  persevere  in  her  inquiries.  When  Margaret 
had  gone,  however,  she  turned  to  her  husband  with  a 
triumphant  gesture,  and  exclaimed :  "There !  I  knew  it  I 
I  said  so  all  along  I  Mark  my  words,  there's  something!" 
and  Mr.  Rush  was  compelled  to  abandon  his  previous 
position,  and  admit  the  correctness  of  his  wife's  prevision. 

Mrs.  Rush  had  succeeded  in  finding  a  new  tenant  for 


232  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

her  room,  but  she  was  so  fond  of  Margaret  that  one  Sun- 
day evening,  some  weeks  afterward — in  the  absence  of 
Mr.  Rush — she  informed  the  girl  that,  if  she  were  in 
trouble  of  any  kind,  she  would  always  find  a  home  with 
them. 

Her  kindness  was  too  much  for  Margaret,  who  had 
been  all  the  week  the  object  of  Mrs.  Ghoole's  increasing 
malignity,  and,  after  a  pitiful  effort  at  self  control,  she 
broke  down  completely  and  burst  into  tears. 

Next  moment  the  good  little  woman,  in  a  passion  of 
baffled  maternity,  had  taken  the  girl  in  her  arms;  and 
Margaret  sobbed  out  her  secret  into  her  sympathetic 
ears. 

If  any  of  her  neighbors  had  come  into  the  room  at 
that  moment  they  might  have  been  reasonably  excused 
had  they  failed  to  recognize  Mrs.  Rush  in  the  bright- 
eyed  woman  stroking  the  weeping  girl's  hair — as  Mar- 
garet sat,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  in  the  arm- 
chair by  the  fire,  with  Mrs.  Rush  bending  over  her.  Her 
ordinary  features  had  become  suddenly  transformed  by 
the  light  of  a  loving  kindness,  a  great  pitifulness,  as  hu- 
man as  it  was  divine. 

She  whispered  something;  and  Margaret  looked  up 
her  gratitude  at  the  motherly  face  above  her,  but  was 
unable  to  speak. 

Wherefore,  Mrs.  Rush  became  positively  cheerful; 
and  Margaret,  half  afraid  to  believe  in  her  good  for- 
tune, ventured  a  doubt  about  what  the  neighbors  would 
think. 

"Think,  indeed!  What's  it  got  to  do  with  them! 
They're  not  to  know  you're  not  married — 7  shan't  tell 
them ;  no  more  will  Rush ;  nor  no  one  else  won't,  my  dear ! 
And  I  simply  love  babies,  and  so  do  Joe!"  Here  she 
broke  off,  and  her  own  tears  came  as  she  thought  of  their 
own  little  one  that  had  grown  like  a  flower  in  their  sight, 
and  who,  like  a  flower,  in  a  few  days  had  withered  and 
died  in  the  room  above. 

Margaret  instinctively  knew  the  other  woman's  feel- 
ings, and  the  two  clung  to  each  other — crying  steadily  to- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  233 

gether  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour;  after  which  they 
both  felt  considerably  relieved,  and,  when  Mrs.  Rush 
had  taken  her  upstairs,  and  they  had  both  removed  the 
traces  of  their  grief,  they  sat  down  to  tea;  and  presently 
Mr.  Rush  came  in,  bringing  with  him  a  large  bunch  of 
primroses  for  Margaret. 

In  vain  now  did  Mrs.  Ghoole  devise  fresh  insults  and 
injuries  for  her  willing  slave.  In  vain  did  her  son  and 
heir  leer  at  her  at  breakfast,  tea,  and  supper.  She  seemed 
neither  to  hear  the  mother  nor  to  see  the  son.  She  ac- 
tually did  not  very  often;  her  mind  seemed  to  have  de- 
tached itself  from  her  present  life,  and  to  have  passed  on 
ahead  of  her  into  the  future  to  other  and  happier  things. 
The  fancies  of  a  pregnant  woman,  that  had  haunted  her 
bedside  of  a  night,  had  lost  their  terrors  now;  and  as 
the  spring  days  lengthened  her  spirits  rose  wonderfully. 

One  glorious  afternoon  in  May  saw  Margaret  walk- 
ing across  Tooting  Common  to  pay  her  weekly  visit  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rush. 

Everywhere  was  the  scent  of  hawthorn  and  the  song 
of  birds.  She  sat  down  under  a  may  tree,  snow  white 
with  blossom.  Suddenly,  from  somewhere  among  the 
dense  foliage  above  her  head,  a  thrush  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  perfect  happiness  and  song.  She  looked  up  lis- 
tening, scarcely  breathing — so  intent  was  she  on  the  mys- 
teries that  awakened  within  her  to  the  sound.  The  tears 
welled  into  her  eyes  as  she  listened:  the  bird  was  in- 
terpreting to  her  a  music  that  found  an  answering  echo 
deep  down  in  her  own  soul. 

A  wonderful  thankfulness  filled  her.  God  bless  dear, 
kind  Mrs.  Rush!  No  more  horrors  for  her  now — she 
would  be  safe  from  harm  until  she  had  brought  baby  into 
the  world,  and  baby  would  be  safe  too!  The  lonely  girl 
had  already  begun  to  talk  to  her  unborn  child.  When 
she  had  felt  the  first  faint  movements  of  its  quickening 
life  she  had  sat  down  and  listened,  as  she  had,  in  a  sense, 
sat  listening  to  the  thrush  just  now.  And  yet — with  what 
a  difference.  Before  the  unfolding  limbs  had  sometimes 


234  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

been  a  kind  of  accusing  thing  claiming  her  for  punish- 
ment; but  now  .  .  .  She  could  give  herself  up  to  all 
the  joys  of  anticipating  the  wonder  that  was  coming  to 
her. 

May  passed;  she  had  already  given  Mrs.  Ghoole  no- 
tice that  she  intended  to  leave  her  service.  Mrs.  Ghoole 
had  received  that  intimation  with  a  tightening  of  the  lips, 
and  a  narrowing  of  the  eyes,  and  a  "Very  well,  Mrs. 
Young" — meaning,  of  course,  that  it  was  very  ill.  How 
ill  it  was  she  endeavored  to  convey  by  every  means  in 
her  power,  short  of  personal  violence,  to  her  long-suffer- 
ing drudge.  Half  starved,  driven  about  the  house  upon 
perfectly  needless  errands  and  duties — Margaret's  pa- 
tience was  sorely  tried  at  times,  but  the  period  of  her 
probation  was  nearly  over  now. 

Its  end  was  nearer  than  she  expected,  but  she  was 
not  to  escape  without  the  last  desperate  effort  of  malicious 
spite  to  wound  her. 

One  morning,  as  she  placed  his  breakfast  before  him, 
Master  Herbert  Ghoole — finding  that  his  leers  and  winks 
had  failed  to  arouse  even  her  annoyance — ventured  to 
make  a  noise  of  kissing  with  his  lips.  Margaret  half 
turned,  and  looked  down  at  him  with  a  wondering  con- 
tempt that  stung  that  young  gentleman  into  a  frenzy  of 
malignant  rage. 

A  few  mornings  afterward  (Mrs.  Ghoole  had  her 
breakfast  upstairs)  he  seized  her  and  tried  to  kiss  her. 
Maddened  by  his  touch,  she  struck  him  in  the  face  with 
her  clenched  left  hand — her  ring  cutting  his  lip  open.  He 
sneaked  off  to  his  room,  cowed  by  the  light  in  her  eyes. 
Afterward  she  heard  him  leave  the  house  to  go  to  busi- 
ness as  usual. 

Shortly  after  Mrs.  Ghoole  came  silently  downstairs, 
and,  advancing  toward  Margaret  as  the  latter  was  dust- 
ing the  room,  screamed:  "So,  I  have  found  you  out,  my 
fine  lady,  have  I !  What's  the  meaning  of  this?  This!" 
she  shrieked,  as  she  held  out  a  piece  of  ribbon  from  some 
of  the  girl's  underclothing.  "I  found  this  in  Master 
Herbert's  bed  just  now !  Get  out  of  my  house,  you  f  aggit ! 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  235 

— you  drab!  Out! — you  brazen  hussy!"  She  ceased  at 
last,  and  stood  glaring  at  Margaret  in  a  paroxysm  of 
speechless  hate. 

For  a  moment  or  two  Margaret  failed  to  compre- 
hend the  nature  of  the  charge  the  other  woman  had  flung 
at  her.  Then  she  understood  it  all,  and  the  meanness 
of  what  he  had  done  surprised  her,  even  after  her  ex- 
perience in  that  household.  He  had  crept  into  her  room 
when  he  had  gone  upstairs,  and  had  taken  the  piece  of 
ribbon  which  she  had  left  lying  on  the  chest  of  drawers. 
His  mother  had  gone  into  his  room  after  he  had  left — 
as,  no  doubt,  he  knew  she  was  in  the  habit  of  doing — and 
found  it  there,  there  where  he  had  put  it  himself. 

Now  Margaret  loved  James  Burkett  with  a  deep  and 
passionate  love,  and,  after  she  put  that  love  away  from 
her,  in  the  flesh,  for  good  and  all,  her  faithfulness  to  its 
memory  had  amounted  to  a  constancy  that  would  last  as 
long  as  life  lasted  for  her. 

Her  purity  of  body  and  soul  was  not  that  of  the  in- 
nocence of  ignorance — a  negative  thing — but  that  of  a 
purity  consecrated  to  a  great  and  ennobling  love  for  the 
man  she  had  idealized  and  served.  Had  the  circum- 
stances of  her  case  been  different  she  might  have  (prob- 
ably would  have — being  a  healthy  and  essentially  human 
young  woman),  in  the  course  of  time,  thought  less  and 
less  of  her  lover  until  he  had  become  but  as  a  background 
to  her  life,  and  have  taken  another  mate. 

As  it  was,  out  of  her  own  body  and  soul  was  growing 
the  heritage  of  their  love.  To  her  her  unborn  child  was 
a  guerdon  which  had  been  vouchsafed  to  her — a  "satis- 
fying" for  that  love-craving  which  is  an  integral  part  of 
healthy  human  life.  A  weak  girl  had  become,  in  ful- 
filling her  destiny,  a  woman  whom  no  terrors  could  have 
daunted  that  were  faced  for  her  child.  She  had  found, 
for  all  her  weakness,  a  spiritual  strength  which,  through 
her,  added  its  measure  to  that  noblest  monument  of  hu- 
man time,  the  sublime  vindication  of  Man's  indomitable 
struggle  upward  from  the  brute,  his  indestructible  fruits 
of  victory  over  death.  Margaret  had  sought,  and  she 


236  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

had  found.  Love  had  unlocked  for  her,  with  his  magic 
key,  the  armory  of  things  tempered  by  his  own  master 
smith  in  his  own  immortal  fires  and  streams.  To  her 
was  given,  perfect-fashioned,  her  panoply  of  proof — a 
courage  which  is  not  of  the  body  but  of  the  soul. 

At  Mrs.  Ghoole's  accusation  her  face  flushed  scarlet 
and  then  went  very  white.  She  turned  on  the  woman  with 
all  the  fury  of  an  outraged  passion. 

"You  vile  woman !  You  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  sow!  How 
dare  you  say  such  a  thing  about  me!"  she  gasped. 

Her  indignation  was  obviously  genuine — but  Mrs. 
Ghoole  had  reasons  for  "believing"  it  assumed.  She  saw 
a  chance  of  getting  rid  of  the  girl  without  paying  her  her 
last  month's  wages — she  was  due  to  leave  in  a  week's 
time.  Therefore,  "working  herself  up,"  she  cried  again: 

"Leave  the  house  at  once,  you  impudent  creature!" 

Margaret  went  upstairs,  and  commenced  packing  her 
things  in  silence,  now  that  the  first  flush  of  anger  had 
given  place  to  contempt.  She  came  down  again  in  a  few 
minutes  with  her  belongings,  and  put  down  her  bag  and 
parcels  by  the  front  door. 

Mrs.  Ghoole,  who  was  standing  near  it,  opened  it,  and 
flinging  them  outside,  attempted  to  push  Margaret  after 
them.  The  girl  was  too  strong  for  her,  and  she  retreated 
a  step,  glaring. 

"My  wages,  please,  Mrs.  Ghoole." 

"Not  a  penny  more  do  you  have  from  me !"  screamed 
the  woman.  "You  have  forfeited  your  right  to  them !  I 
dismiss  you  at  once!  Leave  the  house,  you  brazen 
har " 

The  next  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Slade,  the  book- 
maker's wife,  came  out  and  looked  curiously  at  Margaret. 
She  was  a  stout  woman  of  middle-age,  with  a  good-look- 
ing face  of  somewhat  vulgar  type,  and  a  good-natured 
smile.  Seeing  the  girl's  flushed  face  and  angry  eyes,  she 
said: 

"What's  the  matter,  my  dear?" 

As  Margaret  did  not  answer,  she  went  on  in  a  loud 
voice : 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  237 

"What's  she  trying  to  do?  Diddle  you  out  of  your 
wages?  That's  an  old  trick  of  hers!" 

Mrs.  Ghoole  was  not  prepared  for  this.  The  shot 
evidently  told,  for  she  retreated  down  the  passage  shout- 
ing: "Leave  the  house,  you  hussy,  you!" — while  Mar- 
garet stood  on  the  step,  holding  the  door  wide  open,  un- 
decided what  to  do. 

"Go  for  a  policeman,  my  dear !  That's  what  the  last 
girl  did  that  she  tried  it  on  with  !"  Mrs.  Slade  called  out. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Slade,  I  will!"  and  Margaret  gath- 
tred  up  her  parcels — the  string  of  one  of  which  had 
broken  under  the  ill-usage  it  had  received  at  the  hands  of 
Mrs.  Ghoole. 

Her  wages!  Money  she  had  earned  for  her  child! 
The  vile  woman  would  try  and  rob  baby! 

"Here,  my  dear!  I'll  look  after  your  things!"  Mrs. 
Slade  said,  enjoying  the  situation  immensely — Mrs. 
Ghoole's  remarks  about  her  having  on  more  than  one 
occasion  reached  her  ears.  She  looked  sympathetically 
at  Margaret,  and  then  across  and  up  and  down  Plane 
Tree  Avenue,  noting  with  amused  satisfaction  the  win- 
dows apparently  opening  themselves  in  all  directions. 

Mrs.  Ghoole  had  by  this  time  retreated  to  the  front 
room,  and  stood  peering  with  baffled  fury  from  behind 
the  curtains.  She,  too,  observed  the  same  peculiar  phe- 
nomena, and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  went  to 
the  door  and  cried: 

"Here!  Come  and  fetch  your  miserable  money!  I 
won't  demean  myself  with  quarreling  with  you  about  it, 
it's  worth  it  to  get  rid  of  you !"  and,  taking  out  her  purse, 
she  counted  the  money  on  to  the  table. 

Margaret  collected  it  slowly,  determined  to  see  she 
was  not  cheated  out  of  a  penny,  and  then,  without  a  word, 
left  the  room  and  the  house. 

Mrs.  Ghoole  followed  her,  and  watched  her  take  her 
belongings  from  Mrs.  Slade. 

"If  you  have  any  trouble  with  her  about  your  char- 
acter, my  dear,  refer  'em  to  me!  I'll  tell  'em  a  thing 
or  two  that  '11  make  her  ears  tingle!  Enough  to  drive 


238  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

a  girl  on  to  the  streets,  she  is!"  concluded  that  lady  as 
she  shook  Margaret  by  the  hand.  "Good-bye,  my  dear, 
and  if  you're  in  want  of  a  place  look  me  up!"  she  called 
after  her  as  the  girl  walked  down  the  path. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Slade.  Good-bye !"  Margaret  re- 
plied gratefully  as  she  turned  round  at  the  gate. 

Mrs.  Ghoole  had  darted  out  to  do  battle  with  the 
enemy,  and  the  two  women  were  standing  defying  each 
other  over  the  railing  that  separated  the  front  gardens. 

The  last  that  Margaret  ever  heard  of  Mrs.  Ghoole 
was  in  the  voice  of  Mr.  William  Slade,  who  had  come 
out  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  as  she  walked  away  down 
the  road. 

He  was  a  man  of  few  words,  but  in  what  he  said,  em- 
phatic, and  his  voice  was  of  a  quality  which  penetrated 
the  houses  for  a  hundred  yards  on  either  side  of  his  own. 

"You  oughter  be  bloody-well  burnt,"  and  Margaret, 
so  far  from  feeling  offended  at  his  phraseology,  rejoiced 
exceedingly. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

LOVE  LAUGHS  AT  A  POET'S  PIETY  AND  A  PARSON'S  POETRY 

MERVYN  INGESTRE  had  lived  for  an  Ideal.  Since  he 
had  taken  his  degree,  the  poetic  fervor  of  his  tempera- 
ment had  expended  itself  upon  the  passionate  mysticism 
embodied  in  his  own  conception  of  the  Faith  he  professed. 
A  poet  himself,  the  poetry  which  had  been  antagonistic 
to  that  Faith,  as  a  degrading  superstition,  had  been  to 
him,  hitherto,  the  expression  of  a  perverted  genius ;  and 
such  as  the  transcendent  muse  of  Shelley  a  survival  of 
forces  which,  with  the  poison  and  beauty  of  the  serpent, 
were  the  more  dangerous  by  reason  of  the  insidiousness 
of  their  action.  A  natural  asceticism  had  surrounded  him 
from  the  influences  usually  potent  in  youth;  and  his  life 
had  gradually  become  a  thing  every  year  more  and  more 
consecrated  to  an  abstraction.  At  twenty-six  the  World, 
the  Flesh  and  the  Devil,  if  they  had  tempted  him,  had 
tempted  in  vain. 

With  an  income  sufficient  for  his  needs,  his  mind  had 
been  able  to  follow  its  bent  without  let  or  hindrance.  The 
sterner  aspects  of  human  existence,  which  would  have 
destroyed  the  balance  of  his  ideas  respecting  the  relative 
importance  of  the  ideal  and  the  actual,  scarcely  touched 
his  life  at  all,  and  it  was  allowed  to  remain  undisturbed. 
His  faith  was  more  a  garment  of  dreams  in  which  he 
wrapped  himself,  body  and  soul,  than  a  thing  of  works. 
Dreaming,  to  which  he  was  by  nature  addicted,  had  been 
confirmed  by  habit;  and,  when  he  had  been  suddenly  awak- 
ened by  the  assertion  of  things  in  his  own  life  which  had 
been  in  the  past  only  a  subject  for  contemplation  in  the 

239 


240  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

lives  of  others,  he  was  in  considerable  danger  of  losing 
his  moral  and  physical  equilibrium  altogether. 

The  beautiful  temple  which  he  had  raised  out  of  the 
elusive  materials  of  the  soul  had,  so  far,  been  a  monu- 
ment to  his  architectural  abilities  that  he  had,  with  an  un- 
conscious egoism,  been  content  to  praise  by  his  mode  of 
life  and  thought.  To  appreciate  its  aesthetic  perfections 
had  sufficed;  to  test  its  durability  of  construction  had  been 
unnecessary;  to  deliberately  expose  it  to  the  elements 
which  had  no  place  in  his  life  and  which  were  so  fraught 
with  disaster  to  the  lives  of  others,  would  have  been  an 
act  of  something  like  wanton  cruelty  from  which  his  natu- 
ral sensitiveness  shrank  instinctively.  It  was  as  nearly 
perfect  as  his  limited  sense  of  proportion  would  allow, 
but  it  had  its  inevitable  weak  place,  and  that  in  a  part  of 
the  edifice  most  dangerous  to  the  longevity  of  any  super- 
structure, viz. — in  the  foundations.  He  had  builded  on 
the  principle  that  the  elasticity  of  the  soul  would  adapt 
itself  to  the  strains  of  grosser  materials  under  each  and 
every  condition  of  atmosphere  possible  in  his  life.  In  a 
sense  it  was  threatening,  unknown  to  himself,  to  become 
top-heavy  as  he  added  year  upon  year  to  it,  always  reach- 
ing upward,  nor  pausing  to  examine  the  condition  of  the 
basement  in  the  light  of  knowledge  that  time  and  a  study 
of  human  nature  in  the  flesh  alone  can  bring. 

His  ideals  were  high  as  his  religion  was  by  its  own  al- 
legory— in  fact,  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  age  of 
twenty-five  he  reached  a  point  when  descent  to  earth  was 
a  laborious  undertaking  to  be  avoided  as  much  as  possi- 
ble. He  lived  chiefly  above  the  clouds  in  a  tenuity  of 
ethereal  space  peopled  only  by  the  creatures  of  his  own 
poetic  imagination  and  himself.  There  was,  of  course, 
the  inevitable  "she,"  but  she  was  something  so  ineffably 
superior  to  mortal  women,  so  radiant  with  the  unearthly 
luminosity  with  which  he  had  invested  her,  that  her  out- 
lines were  vague  as  those  of  the  sun  at  summer  noonday. 

Then,  as  indicated  in  a  previous  chapter,  Doubt  had 
taken  hold  on  him. 

It  had  come  slowly,  at  first  in  slight  misgivings,  un- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  241 

recognized  at  the  time  for  symptoms  of  graver  trouble 
that  was  to  follow,  as  slight  as  are  the  first  beginnings 
of  the  white  plague  in  the  lungs  of  Consumption.  His 
mind  had  viewed  them  at  the  time  as  but  the  attempt  of 
the  powers  of  evil  whereby  his  faith  was  to  be  undermined 
and  shaken — a  test  of  his  belief  in  the  accepted  canons 
and  conceptions  of  his  God. 

The  rejection  of  his  Religion  by  men  of  undoubted 
genius  and  purity  of  soul — in  one  or  two  instances  by  men 
of  such  character  whom  he  had  known  personally;  the 
discoveries  of  scientific  truths  which  he  had  for  long  been 
content  to  deliberately  ignore;  had  at  length  made  him 
pause  and  hesitate  in  his  pursuit  of  The  Holy  Grail  along 
the  narrow  pathways  ecclesiastic,  and  ultimately  venture 
into  those  dubious  lands  where  dwell  much  perturbations 
of  the  spirit  for  the  Orthodox. 

As  commonly  happens  in  such  cases,  the  results  were 
disastrous  to  the  peace  of  mind  and  body  and  soul  of 
the  Rev.  Mervyn  Ingestre.  Silently  and  fiercely  he  had 
struggled  with  himself  as  a  man  struggles  against  hands 
that  seize  him  to  fling  him  into  an  abyss. 

At  last  he  had  sought  for  sympathy  in  a  man  with 
whom,  years  before,  he  had  studied  the  mysteries  of  their 
common  faith. 

To  his  surprise,  his  friend,  who  had  recently  returned 
from  a  long  sojourn  in  the  East,  so  far  from  evincing 
any  consternation,  as  Mervyn  with  much  hesitation  ex- 
plained his  troubles,  had  calmly  informed  him  that  he  had 
gone  through  much  the  same  sort  of  phase  himself;  and 
had,  finally,  come  to  the  conclusion  that  if  you  "believed" 
it  was  all  right,  and  if  you  didn't  you  were  no  worse  off. 
As  far  as  he  was  concerned,  his  friend  had  told  him,  he 
had  long  since  dismissed  Religion  as  "bogey";  and  so 
far  from  experiencing  any  of  the  moral  annihilation 
prophesied  of  him,  he  had  felt  a  better  man  in  that  he 
had  freed  himself  from  at  least  one  of  the  humbugs  of 
life,  and  its  attendant  necessities  requiring  his  support  of 
"mumbo-jumboes"  the  majority  of  thinking  men  of  the 
English-speaking  races  already  tolerated  or  ignored. 


242  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

His  callousness  toward  the  whole  subject  had,  at  first, 
horrified  the  young  clergyman.  The  two  had  been  col- 
lege chums,  bosom  friends  until  the  other's  life  had  taken 
him  out  of  England  and  they  had  lost  sight  of  each  other 
as  the  years  went  on.  Meeting  by  chance  one  day  in 
town,  at  a  time  when  Mervyn's  doubts  were  becoming  too 
painful  to  be  borne,  he  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  un- 
bosom them  to  his  old  friend. 

The  latter's  indifference  had  proceeded  more  from 
force  of  habit  than  lack  of  sympathy,  and,  seeing  Mer- 
vyn's genuine  distress,  he  had  done  his  best  to  smooth 
his  difficulties  for  him.  He  was  aware  that  his  means 
were  sufficient  to  make  him  independent  of  his  stipend 
as  a  cleric  for  the  necessities  of  existence,  and  he  hinted 
that  if  he  did  not  believe  any  longer  the  truth  of  what 
he  preached  he  was  not  compelled  to  remain  in  the 
Church. 

His  advice,  although  prompted  by  the  best  of  inten- 
tions, had  served  only  to  plunge  the  recipient  into  subtler 
agonies  as  his  doubts  increased. 

The  other,  who  had  been  engaged  in  railway  work  in 
Burmah,  had  given  it,  as  his  opinion,  upon  Mervyn's  ques- 
tioning him  upon  his  own  ideas  as  to  the  divine  origin 
of  Faith,  that,  while  everything  might  have  A  Divine 
for  a  first  cause,  the  capacity  for  evolving  a  conception 
of  Religious  Belief  with  its  attendant  dogma  was  as  much 
within  the  scope  of  directly  human  faculties  as  was  the 
evolution  of  the  Locomotive.  His  own  original  beliefs 
had  been  destroyed  by  a  study  of  Religion,  Biology,  and 
History,  and  he  considered  that,  so  far  from  faith  being 
a  spontaneous  thing  springing  coeval  with  Mind,  the  evi- 
dence was  all  in  favor  of  its  being  of  comparatively  re- 
cent date — bearing  in  mind  the  probable  antiquity  of 
man  and  the  relatively  modern  period  covered  by  his- 
torical time. 

Mervyn  Ingestre  had  experienced  what  so  many  have 
experienced  before  him.  At  first  he  had  endeavored  to 
find  a  refuge  in  the  Divine  Authority  of  Holy  Writ,  but 
his  doubts  were  too  insistent  to  be  distanced  by  retreat; 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  243 

and,  for  weeks,  he  had  lived  in  a  condition  of  mental  and 
moral  misery.  A  love  and  longing  for  truth,  inherent  in 
all  poets  worthy  of  the  name,  which  had  previously  found 
satisfaction  in  an  implicit  acceptance  of  Scriptural  Law 
as  God's  direct  revelation  to  man,  now  began  to  assert 
itself.  There  awoke  in  him  a  relentless  desire  for  a  criti- 
cal analysis  as  to  how  much  of  that  Law  was  the  truth 
of  historical  fact — how  much  the  expression  of  the  poetic 
faculties  which  interpret  and  visualize  the  sublime  truth 
of  Imagination  through  the  usual  media.  It  was  self- 
evident  to  him  that  parts  of  the  Bible  were  poetry  of  the 
highest  order.  Among  the  sayings  of  Jesus,  in  the  Book 
of  Job,  were  ideas  which  had  seized  and  held  his  own  im- 
agination by  the  grandeur  of  their  poetry,  quite  apart 
from  their  value  as  revealed  Authority. 

One  of  the  results  of  these  searchings  after  truth  was 
a  dim  and  then  a  distinct  impression — rejected  by  him 
at  first  for  blasphemy,  directly  after  its  inception — that 
the  glory  of  the  life  of  Jesus  as  a  man  was  a  greater  thing 
than  the  idea  of  Jesus  conceived  as  the  Son  of  God,  in 
the  dogmatic  sense. 

Religious  mystic  as  he  was,  Mervyn  Ingestre  was 
bigoted  only  in  as  much  as  his  bigotry  was  the  outcome  of 
a  passionate  faith — his  was  not  the  bigotry  of  an  organi- 
cally narrow  mind. 

He  began  to  reason ;  and  he  found  Reason,  if  not  ex- 
actly as  an  impregnable  rock,  at  least  more  impervious 
than  he  now  began  to  find  that  one  commonly  attributed 
to  Holy  Scripture. 

But  a  greater  than  either  Reason  or  Faith  was  to 
manifest  itself  unto  him,  and  that  was  Love. 

Now  it  was  that  Nature  played  him  a  scurvy  trick — 
though,  from  her  point  of  view,  only  a  just  retribution 
for  his  neglect  of  her  for  other  Gods — wounding  him 
through  the  strongest  part  of  his  armor,  ay,  within  the 
very  precincts  of  the  house  of  his  God  himself. 

Had  this  last  blow  been  delivered  at  any  weaker 
point  and  under  different  circumstances  he  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  recovered  after  a  course  of  treatment  in 


244  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

his  psychic  sanatorium.  At  it  was,  he  repaired  in  an  agony 
of  doubt  to  the  topmost  towers  and  stretched  out  implor- 
ing hands  to  unresponsive  skies.  The  radiance  surround- 
ing his  former  goddess  had  departed  and  left  him  in  the 
dark  with  a  woman  whose  hair  and  eyes  matched  the 
religious  night  which  had  fallen  upon  his  soul.  The  upper 
atmosphere  in  which  he  had  breathed  for  so  long  be- 
came charged  to  an  extent  suggesting  analogies  of  the 
electric  storm  lurking  behind  the  clouds  that  had  suddenly 
enveloped  his  existence.  As  he  searched  the  fabric  of  his 
dream  palace  for  a  place  of  refuge  the  whole  edifice 
swayed  and  shook  before  his  eyes,  and  then,  as  with  a 
crash  of  all  the  celestial  artillery,  it  plunged  with  him 
headlong  to  the  ground. 

When  he  rose  from  the  debris  he  was  morally  a 
wreck.  His  God  had  tempted  him  in  a  way  that  even 
St.  Anthony  had  surely  never  been  tempted.  He  had  as- 
sisted to  bind  the  woman  by  the  most  sacred  of  ties  to  an- 
other man — ties  sanctioned,  nay  commanded,  by  his  God, 
and  even  as  he  did  so,  behold,  his  desire  rose  up  between 
those  two  whom  his  God  had  joined  together.  The  lusts 
of  the  flesh  he  could  conquer:  as  a  matter  of  fact,  his  de- 
sire was  a  spiritual  thing  in  which  the  carnal  appetites 
he  had  had  occasion  to  denounce  from  time  to  time  had 
no  discernible  place.  Love  had  come  to  him — that  was 
all,  and  all  it  was — literally.  But  if  its  advent  was  in 
keeping  with  the  seraphic  manifestation  which  his  fancy 
had  conceived  as  peculiarly  its  own,  its  course  with  him 
was  widely  different  from  any  of  his  preconceptions.  In- 
stead of  rising  serenely  on  ethereal  wings,  and  floating  to 
the  throne  he  had  erected  for  it  on  high,  it  suddenly  arose 
like  a  storm  in  the  night,  its  workings  unseen  until  re- 
vealed by  its  own  terrific  lightning  flash,  and  struck  down 
his  palace  of  preconceived  ideals  as  ruthlessly  as  the  elec- 
tric fluid  shatters  a  church  spire  occasionally.  The  latter 
physical  catastrophe  had  once  or  twice  in  the  past  sug- 
gested to  him  things  difficult  of  reconciliation,  but,  like 
most  expounders  of  "truths"  in  which  the  art  of  reconcil- 
ing the  irreconcilable  is  a  sine  qua  non  to  successful  ex- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  245 

position,  his  powers  of  sophistry  had  proved  equal  to  the 
occasion,  and  his  faith  had  remained  unimpaired  in  those 
days. 

But  this  thing  was  different.  His  faith  had  been  an 
exaltation  pervading  his  whole  being;  there  had  been 
room  for  an  ideal  of  an  earthly  love,  but  it  was  identical 
in  essential  characters  with,  and  contained  within,  his 
spiritual  passion. 

Love  had  come  to  him  in  his  Holy  of  Holies,  and  so 
far  from  approaching  his  Deity  with  the  awe  and  rever- 
ence he  had  expected  as  an  inherent  part  of  its  nature, 
it  had  tumbled  his  temples  into  ruins  before  his  eyes,  and 
then  with  bewildering  rapidity  commenced  to  build  unto 
itself  another  of  totally  different  materials — scornfully 
rejecting  the  earlier  masonry  as  worthless  rubbish.  The 
Lord  Thy  God  is  a  jealous  God!  Thou  shalt  have  no 
other  Gods  but  Me!  But  alas! — Eros  seemed  to  pre- 
scribe exactly  the  same  rules  for  his  own  worship ! 

The  Rev.  Mervyn  Ingestre  was  really  a  man  to  be 
pitied. 

At  last  he  rose  up  from  his  knees  where  he  had  been 
praying,  determined  to  follow  after  the  strange  god  no 
longer  and  to  return  to  his  old  worship  and  that  alone. 
As  he  made  this  pious  resolution,  a  voice  echoed  in  low 
and  indescribably  sweet,  though  mocking,  laughter 
through  his  soul,  and  behold ! — and  the  pale  God  of  his 
earlier  days  was  brushed  aside  by  the  Cleopatra-like 
shade  of  the  owner  of  the  laugh  herself. 

He  failed  to  realize  that  the  workings  of  the  Spirit 
of  Love  were  not  alone  responsible  for  his  undoing.  The 
intensity  of  his  own  peculiar  temperament  was  the  traitor 
within  the  gates  of  his  soul.  To  worship — as  he  under- 
stood worship — both  God  and  the  Woman  was  impos- 
sible; and  already  her  apotheosis  shone  through  the 
shadow  of  his  coming  apostasy. 

She  was  married!  To  love  her  was  a  sin  which  in 
him,  a  priest  of  God,  was  seventy  times  seven  a  deadly 
one! 

He  was  a  poet  born — though  it  must  be  admitted  that 


246  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

up  to  this  time  his  poetry  had  been  a  trifle  "thin."  His 
technic  left  nothing  to  be  desired;  his  ideas  were 
fraught  with  a  nebulous  beauty  of  a  kind,  and  delicate 
almost  to  a  degree  of  effeminacy;  but  the  true  spirit  of 
Poetry — the  inward  fire  which  breathes  through  and 
transfigures  the  form  of  words  and  which  makes  poetry 
the  supreme  expression  of  eloquent  human  emotions — 
was  lacking.  He  had  never  noticed  it  before.  But 
now ! 

He  read  through  some  of  his  compositions  which  had 
pleased  him  at  one  time — they  had  become  suddenly  in- 
sipid, feeble,  and  commonplace;  and,  even  as  he  read,  the 
echo  of  the  woman's  laugh  floated  again  through  his 
senses  and  hovered  over  the  pages  of  manuscript  before 
his  eyes. 

His  pale  face  flushed  and  his  hands  shook  as  he  did 
it,  but  the  next  moment  he  had  torn  the  paper  into  shreds. 

In  a  revulsion  of  feeling  he  sat  down  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Her  voice  rose  triumphantly  in  his 
ears  and  then  died  away  in  a  low  caressing  laugh.  Under 
the  stress  of  the  maddening  emotions  which  suddenly 
awoke  within  him  his  fortitude  broke  down,  and  he 
slipped  on  to  his  knees  and  prayed.  It  was  no  good!  His 
prayers  were  incoherent,  meaningless,  and  void.  He  had 
lost  his  God;  and  she  could  never  be  anything  more  to 
him  than  another  man's  wife ! 

Never  anything  more? 

He  gave  up  the  struggle  with  a  groan.  She  was 
already  more!  She  was  everything!  Already  the  ideal- 
istic tendencies  of  his  nature — tendencies  which  a  poet 
can  no  more  escape  than  can  a  miser  the  desire  to  hoard 
— had  commenced  to  reassert  themselves,  and  he  was  un- 
consciously preparing  the  ritual  of  his  new  worship  in 
the  pagan  temple  that  Love  was  building  for  him.  And 
her  husband  was  a  betting  man !  It  was  sacrilege  at  which 
he  had  assisted.  Her  calmness  during  the  ceremony 
was  her  ignorance.  She  had  drifted  into  the  marriage. 

The  night  of  her  wedding  he  slept  not  at  all,  but  lay 
staring  at  the  dark  in  an  ecstasy  of  spiritual  anguish. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  247 

The  next  day  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  and 
plunged  defiantly  into  the  mythology  of  ancient  Greece — 
devouring  every  scrap  of  prose  and  poetry,  myth  and 
fable,  connected  with  the  woman  who  "made  of  Troy  a 
ruinous  thing." 

At  Oxford  his  Greek  translations  had  brought  him 
fame.  The  poet's  soul  of  him  had  always  recognized  the 
beauty  of  the  pagan  world,  but  it  had  been  a  recognition 
tempered  with  abhorrence ;  and  now,  with  the  zeal  of  the 
extremist,  he  found  himself  conceiving  excuses  for  Paris 
and  Leda's  daughter. 

It  was  inevitable  that  such  lines  of  thought  should 
eventually  develop  along  the  planes  of  the  Personal. 
Suddenly  snatching  up  a  pen,  he  poured  out  his  secret 
passion  to  the  dark-eyed  mistress  of  his  love. 


"Thou  art  more  fair  to  me  than  any  dawn! 
Before  thine  eyes  the  eyes  of  Eos  pale 
Into  gray  mists  and  cloud  of  earthly  skies; 
But,  in  the  dusky  portals  of  thy  soul, 
Old  wonder  dwells,  wonder  the  amorous  Night 
First  felt  in  darkness — making  darkness  fair 
As  vestal  fire  of  those  white  suns  the  stars — 
That  saw  rapt  bridals  whose  communion 
Begot  The  Infinite. 

More  fair  than  God 

Thou  art  to  me !   Than  any  God  more  fair ! — 
Helen  that  gave  old  Troy  to  death  and  fire 
And  sealed  its  nuptials  with  the  hungry  winds 
In  one  great  kiss  of  flame! 

So,  too,  my  soul 

Leaps  like  a  wind-blown  fire  before  the  breath 
Of  longing  for  thee ! — thee,  my  soul's  desire ! 
And  a  great  voice  of  more  than  music  cries : 
"Behold  again  the  face  of  Helena!" 
Faith,  that  was  once  a  star  to  me,  is  slain: 
As  the  day-star  before  the  kiss  of  dawn — 
So  dies  all  faith  in  me  against  the  lips 
That  I  have  kissed,  in  fancy,  many  times! 
Not  all  the  laws  of  God  can  mine  withhold 
From  thine  in  spirit! — no,  not  though  the  cry 


248  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Of  Conscience  ravished  on  the  wings  of  Love 
Sounds  as  it  passes:   Thief!   Adulterer!" 

He  laid  down  the  pen,  and  mentally  contrasted  the 
lines  he  had  written  with  his  previous  efforts,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  woman  who  had  inspired  them 
was  beside  him— gazing  over  his  shoulder  as  he  read, 
first  to  himself  and  then  aloud.  As  he  finished,  the 
voice  of  her  swelled  to  a  note  of  challenge — so  it  sounded 
to  him  in  fancy,  and  he  started  up  and  gazed  round  the 
room  like  a  man  distraught.  He  could  subscribe  to  the 
poet's  dictum  concerning  poets,  that  they  "Learn  in  suf- 
fering what  they  teach  in  song."  Being  at  times  a  very 
human  young  man,  he  could  forget  the  compensating  joy 
that  only  poets  know. 

When  night  came — wearied  out  with  the  struggle  that 
had  been  going  on  in  his  breast  all  day — he  slept;  but  the 
Woman  followed  him  into  his  slumber,  and  his  dreams 
added  to  the  general  conflagration  in  which  his  old  faith 
perished. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE  APOSTASY  OF  THE  REV.  MERVYN  INGESTRE 

His  vicar  called  in  the  morning;  and  Mervyn  Ingestre 
dragged  a  rough-edged  mind  back  to  the  grindstone  of 
parochial  matters — the  process  both  illuminating  his 
mental  condition  and  reflecting  it  in  his  outward  appear- 
ance. 

The  Rev.  Evelyn  Choate,  incumbent  of  St.  Mor- 
dred's,  was  startled  at  the  strange  demeanor  of  his  curate. 
There  was  a  hectic  flush  in  the  young  man's  face,  and  a 
general  air  of  distraction  about  him  altogether,  quite  at 
variance  with  the  Rev.  Evelyn's  previous  experience  of 
him.  Fearing  that  he  was  ill  he  inquired  anxiously  as  to 
his  health,  and  the  concern  in  his  voice  plunged  the  object 
of  his  solicitude  into  still  deeper  confusion. 

Merwyn,  feeling  that  already  he  was  infected  with 
the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees  which  is  Hypocrisy,  declared 
it  to  be  nothing,  that  he  was  all  right,  and  protested  when 
the  vicar  suggested  the  postponement  of  certain  duties; 
but  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  he  saw  his  visitor 
depart. 

The  morning  was  magnificently  fine :  there  was  some- 
thing pagan  in  the  golden  splendor  of  the  day  that  ap- 
pealed to  him  strangely.  Through  the  open  window  of 
his  sitting-room  the  wind  brought  with  it  the  scent  of 
may-flowers  and  the  song  of  birds  from  the  garden  at  the 
back.  To  the  soul's  ear  of  his  poet's  nature  there  came 
the  sound  of  sunlight  falling  through  the  leaves:  he 
could  hear  the  seethe  of  the  world  through  it  as  she 
turned,  with  her  waves  of  hill  and  gorse,  woodland  and 
249 


250  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

thick  boughs,  heather  and  high  meadow-grasses,  fern  and 
flowers. 

He  got  his  hat  and  stick  and  started  off,  determined  to 
try  the  effect  of  fresh  air  and  exercise  upon  his  disordered 
mind. 

As  he  reached  the  common  he  saw  the  well-known 
figure  of  Swinburne — on  his  morning  walk  from  Putney 
— coming  toward  him.  The  poet's  lines  in  that  wonder- 
ful piece  of  word  music,  "The  Last  Oracle,"  which  had 
at  one  time  sounded  as  the  rankest  blasphemy  in  his 
ears,  came  to  him  now  with  a  new  significance : 

"Thou  the  word,  the  light,  the  life,  the  breath,  the  glory, 

Strong  to  help  and  heal,  to  lighten  and  to  slay, 
Thine  is  all  the  song  of  man,  the  world's  whole  story; 

Not  of  morning  or  of  evening  is  thy  day. 
Old  and  younger  gods  are  buried  or  begotten 

From  uprising  to  downsetting  of  thy  sun, 
Risen  from  eastward,  fallen  to  westward  and  forgotten, 

And  their  springs  are  many,  but  their  end  is  one." 

As  he  walked  on  across  the  heath,  he  found  himself 
repeating  other  verses  from  the  same  poem : 

"Till  the  blind  mute  soul  get  speech  again  and  eyesight, 

Man  may  worship  not  the  light  of  life  within ; 
In  his  sight  the  stars  whose  fires  grow  dark  in  thy  sight 

Shine  as  sunbeams  on  the  night  of  death  and  sin. 
Time  again  is  risen  with  mightier  word  of  warning, 

Change  hath  blown  again  a  blast  of  louder  breath; 
Clothed  with  clouds  and  stars  and  dreams  that  melt  in  morning, 

Lo,  the  gods  that  ruled  by  grace  of  sin  and  death !" 

Was  it  true? 

"They  are  conquered,  they  break,  they  are  stricken, 

\Vhose  might  made  the  whole  world  pale; 
They  are  dust  that  shall  rise  not  or  quicken 

Though  the  world  for  their  death's  sake  wail. 
As  a  hound  on  a  wild  beast's  trace; 
So  time  has  their  godhead  in  chase; 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  251 

As  wolves  when  the  hunt  makes  head, 
They  are  scattered,  they  fly,  they  are  fled  ; 
They  are  fled  beyond  hail,  beyond  hollo, 

And  the  cry  of  the  chase,  and  the  cheer 
O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 

Destroyer  and  healer,  hear!" 

All  around  him  was  the  sun:  as  he  walked,  the  larks 
in  the  tufted  grass  rose  before  his  feet  and  leapt  singing 
into  the  golden  air  above.  The  level  heath  seemed  as  a 
vast  reservoir  into  which  the  beams  were  being  poured — 
the  ground  itself  seemed  to  exhale  their  volatile  essence  in 
the  sunbright  vapor  which  shimmered  above  the  grass 
like  dry  steam.  Dogs  and  children  that  he  passed  were 
rolling  in  it;  everything  seemed  steeped  in  an  elemental 
rapture  inspired  by  the  pagan  God  of  Day. 

"We  arise  at  thy  bidding  and  follow, 

We  cry  to  thee,  answer,  appear, 
O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 
Destroyer  and  healer,  hear!" 

The  haunting  music  of  the  words  infected  him,  up- 
lifted him  above  the  clouds  of  doubt  and  despair  that 
lurked  about  his  soul. 

Bah!  It  was  a  worship  for  brutes  and  children! — as 
the  pendulum  of  his  mind  swung  back  to  the  recollection 
of  his  former  ideals. 

Brutes  and  children !  Children?  Christ's  own  words 
came  to  him:  "For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 
And  there  had  been  great  men  with  the  heart  of  a  child. 

Brutes?  The  poet  who  had  written  the  words  which 
had  affected  him  so  strangely?  The  absurdity  of  the 
comparison  struck  him  and  he  laughed  aloud.  Mervyn 
Ingestre  was  poet  enough  himself  to  recognize  the  pecu- 
liar genius  of  the  man — a  genius  which  had  already 
earned  its  place  among  the  immortal  lights  that  lighten 
the  world  through  the  ages  with  the  lamp  of  Song. 

And  now  the  genius  of  the  poet  had  taken  on  the 
mantle  of  the  prophet  as  well.  Was  it  not  true  that  his 


252  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

whilom  creed  was  one  that  withered  away  from  the  soil 
of  men's  souls,  was  already  a  dead  thing  even,  with  the 
majority  of  men? 

Before,  he  would  have  seen  in  such  a  circumstance  a 
legitimate  grievance  against  mankind,  but  now  it  seemed 
to  him  man's  indictment  of  falsehoods  once  glorified 
before  the  sun,  Truth's  sentence  on  them  at  the  tribunal 
of  Time.  After  eighteen  hundred  years  of  it — what  had 
happened?  Science  and  the  spread  of  human  knowledge 
had  entered  the  field,  and  the  last  hundred  years  had  seen 
a  continual  retreat  of  the  forces  of  Theology  which 
threatened  in  a  few  more  years  to  become  a  rout.  What 
if  for  justice  man  must  look  to  man  alone? 

He  was  as  astounded  at  the  way  in  which  he  had 
previously  ignored  the  superstition  beneath  the  spiritual 
beauties  of  Religion  as  he  was  now  at  the  manner  in 
which  he  overlooked  the  spiritual  beauties  which  had  been 
so  much  to  him  in  the  past.  Then  he  thought  of  Shelley 
years  before — of  the  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  burn- 
ing with  hatred  of  the  blight  of  superstition  which  the 
Creeds  had  flung  across  the  skies  and  the  eyes  of  men. 
And  the  seeds  that  Shelley  sowed  were  coming  to  fruition 
at  last?  His  mind  became  chaotic — he  could  think  no 
more. 

He  stopped  in  his  walk,  and,  removing  his  hat,  stood 
gazing  before  him  at  the  sun-shot  azure  dome  of  sky. 
The  wind,  increasing  in  strength  with  the  sun  as  the 
shadows  shortened,  stirred  the  plain  of  feathery  grasses 
around  him  into  rippling  waves.  Through  the  soft  warm 
breath  of  May  palpitated  the  song  of  innumerable  larks. 
His  whole  soul  was  in  his  eyes  now — the  rays  that  slanted 
into  them  seemed  to  meet  and  mingle  with  the  light  shin- 
ing through  them  from  within. 

He  was  free!  His  doubts  had  suddenly  vanished! 
With  the  awakening  of  an  earthly  love  had  come  a  great 
and  hitherto  unfelt  love  for  his  kind.  Henceforth,  his 
life  should  be  consecrated  to  his  new  faith — his  future 
doctrine,  Love  for  Love's  sake.  To  minister  to  men  in 
their  pilgrimage  on  earth ;  to  preach — not  the  abstraction 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  253 

of  a  supposititious  Heaven,  but  a  message  of  loving  kind- 
ness in  man  to  man  for  the  sake  of  humanity.  The 
woman  who  had  enthralled  him  had,  in  reality,  been  his 
liberator  from  the  domination  of  a  beautiful  but  selfish 
ego.  It  was  inherent  in  his  nature  that  he  should  crave 
for  an  ideal  to  live  by,  and  for  the  moment  she  became 
nebulous  as  her  predecessor,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
sun. 

He  walked  on,  and  presently  came  to  the  group  of 
cottages  by  the  Windmill.  Sitting  down  on  a  bench  be- 
side the  garden  fence  he  basked  in  the  glowing  fragrant 
air. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  seat  a  man  of  about  forty, 
with  his  right  arm  in  a  sling  and  his  hand  swathed  in 
bandages,  was  sitting  reading.  He  had  the  appearance 
of  an  artisan  of  the  better  class;  and  Mervyn,  under  the 
influence  of  his  new  impulse,  found  himself  studying  the 
man's  face  with  interest — speculating  as  to  the  nature 
of  the  book  he  was  reading.  He  was  very  intent  on  the 
pages,  and  had  not  noticed  Mervyn's  approach.  The 
latter  took  out  his  pouch  and  pipe,  and  proceeded  to 
smoke. 

Smelling  the  tobacco,  the  reader  looked  up  suddenly, 
stared  for  a  moment  at  the  smoker,  and  then  went  on 
with  his  book  again.  Presently  he  put  it  down,  with  its 
bright  red  paper  covers  upward,  and,  after  searching  in 
his  pocket,  produced  a  tobacco  pouch,  briar  pipe,  and 
box  of  matches.  He  opened  the  pouch  on  his  knee,  and 
then  placing  it  on  the  book  beside  him  commenced  to 
fill  the  pipe  slowly  with  his  only  available  hand.  As  he 
placed  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  he  raised  his  face  and  re- 
garded Mervyn  indifferently.  It  was  an  intelligent  face 
of  strong  character;  the  eyes  large,  and  of  a  peculiarly 
bright  light  blue. 

"Let  me  give  you  a  light!"  said  Mervyn,  foreseeing 
the  difficulty  for  a  man  with  one  hand  and  a  box  of  safety 
matches. 

"Thanks,  it's  kind  of  you,"  the  stranger  replied, 
rather  gruffly,  Mervyn  thought. 


254  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

He  sat  down  again,  rather  closer  to  the  other,  and 
said: 

"You  have  had  an  accident?" 

"Fingers  off.  Couple,"  the  man  replied  laconically, 
and  then  commenced  puffing  away  at  his  pipe  in  evident 
satisfaction. 

"Oh !  That  is  bad !   How  did  it  happen?" 

"Caught  'em  in  some  machinery." 

"It  must  have  been  horribly  painful!" 

'Urt  a  bit.  Pulled  the  tendons  out.  Gettin'  all 
right  agin  now." 

Mervyn  shuddered.  The  agony  must  have  been  ex- 
cruciating. Then  he  said:  "But  won't  it  interfere  with 
your  work  in  the  future?" 

"Will  a  bit  at  first,  I  expect,  but  it  won't  make  a  great 
deal  of  diff'rence,  'cept  in  settin'  a  cut,  maybe,  or  the 
poppet-'ead  center.  I'm  a  turner.  If  I'd  been  a  fitter 
it'ud  a  been  a  bit  rough." 

"You  seem  to  take  it  very  philosophically." 

"Got  to.  Accidents  will  happen.  First  bad  un  I've 
'ad.  Might  a  been  worse — like  a  mate  o'  mine.  Went 
round  the  shaftin'.  Before  they  could  stop  the  injin  'e 
was  smashed  to  pulp,  pore  b " 

"How  horrible!" 

The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Lots  of  'orrible 
things  in  this  world,  mister,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  there  are!"  Mervyn  was  beginning 
to  suspect  himself  of  an  unworthy  egoism  in  the  past  and 
to  feel  in  sympathy  with  a  class  that  had  previously  re- 
pelled him.  Their  frequent  use  of  a  sanguinary  adjective, 
and  habits  of  smoking  shag  tobacco,  had  seemed  disgust- 
ing to  his  refined  tastes.  For  the  first  time  one  of  them  had 
appeared  to  him  in  the  light  of  a  man  and  a  brother. 
"What's  the  book  you  were  so  interested  in  when  I  sat 
down?"  he  said,  smiling. 

The  man  who  had  lost  his  fingers  laughed,  and  looked 
at  him  a  moment  with  a  queer  light  in  his  blue  eyes.  A 
hint  of  unfriendliness,  that  the  young  clergyman  had 
seen  in  his  eyes  and  heard  in  his  voice  at  the  beginning 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  255 

of  their  conversation,  here  momentarily  returned. 
"Wouldn't  interest  you,  mister,  'The  Curses  of  Chris- 
tianity'." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  in  the  least  bigoted — now,  though  I 
cannot  say  that  I've  read  it,"  replied  Mervyn,  with  an- 
other smile,  and  conscious  of  the  fact  that  until  very 
lately  he  had  been  very  bigoted  indeed.  "Who's  the 
author?" 

"Me.  I  wrote  it.  As  a  warnin'  agin  gammonin  of 
our  side  in  the  comin'  fight.  We've  'card  quite  enough 
of  the  blessin's.  I'm  goin'  through  it,  revisin'  for  a 
second  edition,"  he  added,  half  apologetically,  as  if  for 
the  vanity  of  reading  his  own  work.  "I " 

"But  surely,"  put  in  Mervyn,  interrupting,  "you  do 
not  deny  that  the  Church  does  an  immense  amount  of 
good  among  the  poor?" — feeling,  as  he  spoke,  how  little 
he  had  ever  done  himself. 

The  man  laughed.  "You  speak  more  like  a  man  ad- 
vancin'  a  excuse  rather  than  a  reason  for  its  existence. 
Oh  yes,  the  Church  does  a  lot  o'  good — I'll  admit  that — 
it  oughter!  It's  the  harm  I'm  a  haimin'  at — the  diddle, 
the  dirty  bleedin'  diddle!"  There  was  more  than  a  sus- 
picion of  a  snarl  in  his  voice,  and  his  eyes  had  grown 
hard  suddenly. 

Mervyn  flushed.  He  was  getting  upon  doubtful 
ground.  The  man  who  had  lost  his  fingers  might  be  a 
dangerous  fanatic,  an  anarchist.  He  had  heard  the  work- 
ing classes  were  getting  dangerous ;  and  that,  save  in  the 
country  districts,  the  "touch-your-hat-to-the-parson's- 
lady"  days  were  passing  away  from  their  world  forever. 
He  glanced  at  the  man.  The  other  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten him,  and  sat  staring  at  the  distant  landscape,  after 
having  expectorated  twice  in  quick  succession.  Presently 
he  began  again,  in  quieter  tones : 

"I  see  in  it  a  gigantic  stew-pond  for  the  big  an'  little 
fishes  of  'ypocrisy.  The  very  kids  are  brought  up  on  it! 
Until  we're  prepared  to  look  the  f acks  o'  life  in  the  face, 
there'll  be  precious  little  'ope  for  anything  like  a  proper 
improvement  in  the  condition  of  the  lives  of  the  prole- 


256  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

tariat.  The  Church  'as  told  us  to  bear  our  burdens 
patiently,  and  talks  about  the  Blessed  Truth  glib  enough. 
Truth !  Why,  mate,  you  an'  yer  friends  get  up  in  yer  pulpit 
witness-boxes  and  give  evidence  that  'ud  make  even  a 
county  court  judge  kick  and  take  action  about!"  He  left 
off  and  laughed  angrily.  Then  he  turned  to  his  listener 
with :  "Sorry,  mate !  No  offense,  only  I'm  a  plain  man. 
'Praps  this  'ere  job  makes  me  a  bit  touchy,  too,"  and  he 
moved  his  injured  arm. 

His  evident  sincerity  attracted  his  listener.  Mervyn 
felt  that  it  somehow  excused  his  violence.  His  own 
timidity  was  leaving  him,  after  the  shock  of  the  man's 
first  outburst.  He  felt  himself  being  drawn  out  of  his 
shell  of  class-reserve  by  a  certain  frankness  in  the 
stranger.  He  ventured  to  reply,  "But  the  spiritual 
truth?" 

"Spiritual  truth  is  right!  If  you  think  yer  spiritual 
truth  justifies  yer  promisin'  a  lot  of  pore  an'  ignorant 

b s  eternal  bliss,  an'  all  the  rest  of  it,  in  some  life 

everlastin'  you  do  it.  But  what  did  they  put  a  mate  o' 
mine,  a  laborer  earnin'  seventeen  bob  a  week,  when  'e 
was  in  work,  in  the  jug  for,  with  'ard  labor,  becoz  'e 
cursed  you  an'  yer  God  for  a  lot  of  most  dispickarable  'oly 
liars?  Why,  even  some  toffs  got  up  a  pertition  agin  it, 
sayin'  as  it  was  only  bad  taste,  was  blasphemy.  Bad 
taste !  What  about  the  other  wangle,  then  ?  An'  you  call 
yerselves  gentlemen,  no  doubt;  an  most  of  you  are,  in 
some  ways,  if  there's  any  meanin'  to  the  word,  that's  the 
rum  thing  about  the  bizness!  No,  mate,  we  shan't  get 
earthly  justice  till  this  life  as  the  only  one's  insisted  upon. 
All  that  there  leavin'  God  to  settle  up,  an  puttin'  it  off 
to  another  world  game,  strikes  at  the  very  root  of  real 
morality  an'  justice!"  He  paused  for  breath,  and  an- 
other light.  Between  draws  and  puffs  he  resumed,  "Ever 
seen  Swinburne  goin'  along  over  there  (he  pointed  with 
his  pipe  across  the  heath) — for  'is  arf  pint,  or  whatever 
'e  'as, — at  The  Rose  an'  Crown?  Nasty  godless  old  man, 
some  of  'em  calls  'im,  about  'ere.  Well,  'e's  a  toff,  a 
bloomin'  haristercrat  by  birth.  But'',e  saw,  long  ago, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  257 

what  a  diddle  it  all  was,  not  arf  'e  didn't,  saw  a  bleedin' 
sight  further  than  Tennyson  nor  Brownin'  which  way 
the  world  'ud  'ave  to  go  I" 

"Yes,  I've  frequently  seen  him — I  saw  him  this 
morning."  He  remembered  his  own  thoughts  on  the 
poet,  as  he  had  crossed  the  heath,  and  was  struck  by  the 
coincidence  of  this  workman's  allusion.  "You  consider 
him  a  prophet,  then?"  he  asked,  seeking  an  affirmation 
in  the  other,  for  his  own  support  in  his  recently  acquired 
heresy,  where  as  yet  the  way  was  still  uncertain  in  places 
with  negation's  vague  and  shadowy  grounds. 

"I  do,  mate!  I  give  you  my  word,"  came  the  answer. 
Then  the  speaker  once  more:  "An'  as  for  teachin'  us 
patience !  Well,  patience  is  a  wonderful  good  thing  in 
its  way,  but  you  can  'ave  too  much  of  it.  We've  'ad !  The 
clarses  above  us  think  it's  a  splendid  thing  for  us  to  be 
patient — they  want  us  to  be.  If  we  wern't  we  might  arsk 
for  another  half-penny  an  hour!  They  want  to  provide 
work  for  us.  Oh  they're  most  anxious  to  provide  work 
for  us,  I  do  assure  you — as  long  as  they  can  make  a  profit 
on  it!  An'  the  church  'as  'elped  'em — 'elping  us  to  be 
patient,  but  we're  beginning  to  suspect  our  mate  of  double 
dealings.  Shelley  knew  something  when  'e  talked  of 
Priests  an'  Liberty-sides !  I  don't  blame  'em  for  trying  to 
exploit  us — under  existin'  conditions  they've  got  to,  to 
keep  their  own  'eads  above  water.  But  I  blame  our  side 
if  we  don't  try  an'  beat  'em!  Until  we  do  beat  'em,  the 
rules  of  the  game'll  never  be  as  fair  as  they  might.  Until 
we're  strong  enough  to  'it  back,  an'  clever  enough  to  know 
'ow  to  'it,  the  world'll  go  on  sacrificin'  us  to  a  fetich  of 
Commercialism  that  they've  made  'emselves.  They,  be- 
cause it's  bred  in  'em;  we,  because  we've  got  to.  They're 
usin'  your  religion  as  a  charity  to  keep  our  mouths  shut, 
one  moment,  an'  as  a  bizness  method  to  exploit  us,  the 
next.  But,  when  they  talk  about  the  morality  of  it,  they 
make  me  sick.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  if  you've  been 
about  the  world  an'  kept  your  eyes  open,  that  Mammon's 
the  real  God  that's  worshiped  at  the  present  day — 
Mammon,  what  breeds  selfishness  like  'errings  do  fry. 


258  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Until  we  do  something  to  destroy  the  possibilities  for  the 
god  of  Greed,  what  real  chance  is  there  for  better  things? 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves!  Don't  make  me  laugh! 
Why,  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of  'em  are!  Slaves 
to  a  system  of  Capitalism  as  they've  made  'emsehesf 
Slaves?  Less  than  the  cogs  in  the  gear  of  a  machine, 
mate!  They'll  always  be  slaves  to  'unger  an'  thirst,  but 
they  didn't  make  them.  It's  little  good  for  the  up'olders 
of  the  present  system  to  'owl  about  us  socialists  as  ram- 
pacious  robbers.  Look  up  the  amount  of  public  common 
land  which  'as  been  collared  an'  enclosed.  An'  what  does 
Society — Society  which  makes  the  laws — which  'as  all  the 
advantages  of  education — which  sets  such  store  by  good 
taste,  an  which  sends  a  'ungry  man  to  prison  for  takin'  a 
turnup  out  of  a  field,  an'  talks  of  right  an'  wrong — what 
does  Society  do?  Why,  honors  the  descendants  of  the 
original  thief !  The  thief  'imself  in  'is  own  life-time  very 
orften !  Oh  yes,  I  know  !  Their  ancestors  fought  an'  bled 
for  it,  sez  some.  I'd  like  to  fight  some  of  'em  for  it  now 
— even  with  my  one  dook.  I've  bled  a  bit,  an'  gets  less 
nor  a  pound  a  week  to  feed  me  an'  the  missus  an'  kids  on, 
while  I'm  restin'  after  it.  Demos  is  blind  an'  dirty  an' 
foul-mouthed?  Yes,  but  don't  forget  Vs  strong — won- 
derful bloody  strong!  If  'e  'adn't  been  'e'd  a-died,  long 
ago !  'E's  got  a  lot  of  learn,  but  'e'll  learn  it,  never  fear ! 
Now,  it's  like  puttin'  a  fifteen-stun  navvy,  full  o'  fore-ale 
agen  a  good  'ard-'ittin'  skientific  middle-weight,  in 
trainin'.  It's  a  pound  to  a  half-penny  on  the  smaller  man 
ever  time.  But  it  ain't  always  goin'  to  be  like  that.  Oh 
no!  Don't  forget  this,  mate — there  are  some  lessons 
which  only  adversity  teaches — some  that  most  of  the  so- 
called  upper  clarses,  with  their  pamperfied  souls  an' 
bodies,  'aven't  never  learnt  yet  nor  never  will,  till  they're 
taught.  Upper  clarses !"  He  pretended  to  a  mincing  air, 
then :  "Jeames,  to  the  physician's  at  once !  Fido  is  fever- 
ish. It  may  be  critical !  If  anything  'appens,  Jeames,  an' 
we  har  too  late,  I  should  nevhar  forgive  you !  Gawd 
blimey!  When  you  know  there's  arf  of  us — men,  women, 
and  children — worse  fed,  worse  'oused,  worse  clothed, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  259 

than 'unters  or  lap-dogs !  Upper  clarses!"  He  burst  into 
a  laugh  of  derision,  followed  by  what  was  to  his  listener's 
ears  the  most  frightful  blasphemy.  Then  he  checked  him- 
self and  stopped.  "Sorry,  mister,  I  was  forgettin'!" 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  slowly  and 
thoughtfully  commenced  to  refill  it  again. 

Mervyn,  who  had  flinched  again  at  the  man's  ex- 
pletives, nevertheless  felt  strangely  interested  in  him. 
There  was  a  rough  eloquence  in  his  face  and  voice  and 
manner — the  eloquence  of  power.  Evidently  he  was  no 
ordinary  workman — he  had  read  and  thought  deeply. 

Shrewd  and  intelligent — with  his  intelligence,  and  his 
father's  before  him,  strengthened  by  the  necessity  for  its 
constant  exercise  in  a  highly  skilled  handicraft,  and  with- 
out his  more  intellectual  faculties  having  been  perverted 
by  the  moral  color-blindness  induced  by  the  lust  of  gold 
— he  was  an  example  of  a  type  rapidly  increasing  in 
numbers  with  the  modern  facilities  for  acquiring  knowl- 
edge, and  a  vindication  of  the  mental  advantages  to  be 
obtained  by  learning  a  trade.  The  mind  which  could 
think,  and  had  constantly  to  think  in  thousandths  of  an 
inch,  could  think  in  stellar  distances  as  well,  as  soon  as 
it  was  supplied  with  the  necessary  data. 

Mervyn  gave  him  a  light,  remarking  as  he  did  so: 
"Go  on.  But  why  appeal  to  the  Deity  you  deny,  as  you 
did  just  then?" 

"Not  at  all!  /  don't  deny  'im!  I  deny  that  any  of  us 
know  anything  about  'im  in  the  way  of  a  future  existence 
as  you  blokes  want  to  make  out.  If  it  comes  to  that, 
I  daresay  you,  a  Christian,  'ave  sworn  by  Jove  before 
now,  come!"  he  added  after  a  moment's  pause. 

Mervyn  laughed,  and  admitted  it.  The  man  had  evi- 
dently a  sense  of  humor — a  thing  in  which  he  himself  had 
been  sadly  lacking,  up  till  now. 

He  began  again,  after  a  few  puffs  at  his  pipe, — "Now 
to  me,  all  yer  talk  about  God  in  'is  'eaven  is  downright 
Hi  diddle  diddle,  the  cat  an'  the  fiddle.  You  know  as 
well  as  I  do  that  if  there  is  anything  certain  in  the  uni- 
verse it's  the  fack  that  there  can  be  no  endin'  to  space 


26o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

an'  time.  Infinity  and  Eternity  not  only  prove  themselves 
by  reason  of  the  absurdity  of  denyin'  their  existence — but 
from  the  nature  of  'em  they're  impossible  to  conceive 
except  as  abstrack  terms  used  expedient.  It's  easier  to 
semi-imagine  the  Infinite  than  to  semi-imagine  Finiteness. 
Why's  it  so?  Because  they're  things  outside  the  plane 
of  the  human  intelleck.  Right  bang  outside  it !  A  senior 
wrangler,  or  a  fly-blow  loafin'  outside  a  pub — either  can 
understand  'em  as  much  or  as  little  as  the  other.  If  it's 
impossible  to  realize  or  understand  Infinity — an'  no  one 
ever  did  yet  on  this  earth,  or  ever  will,  I'm  thinkin', 
'ow  much  more  impossible  is  it  to  realize  or  understand 
the  power  which  is  responsible  for  its  existence.  Yet  you, 
with  your  creeds  and  your  faiths  and  your  fiddlesticks, 
not  only  get  up  and  deal  out  Eternity  by  the  yard,  as  it 
were,  but  swank  it  on  us  that  we're  all  right  forever  if  we 
take  your  word  for  somebody  else's  word  that  Jesus 
Christ  was  the  Son  of  God  an'  a  virgin  woman.  Fearful 
blasphemy  really,  if  you  only  knew  it!  An'  some  of  you 
draws  yer  thousan's  a  year  on  the  strength  of  it!  Most 
men  look  upon  a  parson  as  a  sort  of  glorified  confidence 
trick  merchant,  with  'is  Thus  saith  the  Lord  for  a  gold 
brick,  an'  it  ain't  to  be  wondered  at !  Bah !  It'd  be  funny, 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  awful  waste  of  real  lives  that  goes'  on, 
an'  nothin'  said!" 

Mervyn  wondered  what  the  Rev.  Evelyn  Choate 
would  think  of  his  curate's  present  conversation  and 
mental  condition ;  and  the  man  went  on : 

"There's  unconscious  self-deception,  I'll  admit;  but  I 
say  that  no  man  shall  get  up  and  instruct  me  in  the  mys- 
teries of  a  future  life  until  'e  'as  studied  something  of  the 
undeserved  miseries  going  on  in  this.  If  'e  'as  done  so, 
an'  can  still  be  honest  when  'e  talks  Gospel  Truths  an' 
what  not — good  luck  to  'im !  I  can  respeck  'is  honesty  if 
I  can't  'is  intelleck.  But  'ow  many  of  'em  that  talks  about 
Thus  saith  the  Lord  are  anything  but  conscious  humbugs 
or  men  sunk  in  a  ignorant  superstition?  "Thou  shalt 
not  suffer  a  witch  to  live."  'Ow  many  thousands  of  pore 
old  women  have  been  done  to  death  cruel,  on  the  strength 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  261 

of  that  benign  truth  in  the  past?  What  price  Mrs.  'arris 
after  that!  "An'  bloody  faith  the  foulest  birth  of 
Time" — not  my  words,  but  Shelley's;  words  that'll  be 
read  and  remembered  when  yore  dust  an'  mine  is  forgot! 
The  argument  from  faith  ain't  worth  two-pennorth  o'  cold 
gin!  The  Christian  is  certain  of  eternal  life  as  the  ulti- 
mate of  his  ideal;  the  Buddhist — an'  there  are  quite  as 
many  Buddhists  in  the  world  as  Christians,  if  not  more — 
of  annhillashun.  Are  you  goin'  to  advance  that  as  a 
proof  that  faith  is  in  itself  a  truth  what  proves  your 
truths?  An'  as  for  Genesis, — Darwin  let  that  cat  out  of 
the  bag,  an  Tommy  'uxley  saw  as  it  jumped  I" 

He  left  off  speaking,  and  after  getting  another  light 
for  his  pipe,  which  had  gone  out,  sat  silently  smoking  and 
staring  thoughtfully  before  him  at  the  sunshine. 

Mervyn  felt  that  he  must  strike  one  more  blow  for 
the  cloth  he  was  wearing — although  he  had  already  de- 
cided that  he  would  not  wear  it  much  longer.  He  had, 
to  a  certain  extent,  forgotten  his  own  troubles  in  listening 
to  the  man's  discourse  upon  wider  matters. 

"At  least  the  Church  teaches  men  how  to  live  and 
die,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  'Ow  d'you  mean?  It  teaches  'em  to  pray! — an' 
prayer  makes  a  wonderful  lot  of  difference,  no  doubt! 
Considerin'  the  efficiency  of  prayer  an'  the  number  of 
prayers  that  'ave  been  prayed,  it's  a  marvel  there's  any 
relationship  left  'tween  cause  an'  effeck,  ain't  it,  mate? 
It  appeals  to  their  cupidity  by  promising  'em  all  sorts  of 
things  after  they're  dead  if  they're  such  good  boys  in  this 
life  as  to  believe  what  they're  told.  It  teaches  men  to  be 
infernal  hypocrites  at  the  present  day,  as  it  taught  'em  to 
be  infernal  bloody  cruel  in  the  past.  What  price  Smith- 
field  and  The  Inquisition?  Teaches  men  to  die?"  His 
eyes  became  suddenly  stern  and  fierce.  "We  don't  want 
no  teachin'  that,  mister!  'Ave  you  ever  troubled  to  add 
up  the  number  of  workin'men  what  lose  their  lives  by 
'orrible  deaths  every  year?  Coal  mines — railways — other 
trades!  Those  men  take  their  lives  in  their  'ands  six 
days  a  week  an'  think  nothin'  of  it!  An'  we  ain't  got 


262  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

automatic  couplin's  yet,  nor  some  things  for  the  miners, 
what  orter  a-been  long  ago,  for  all  yer  morality! 
Morality — bleedin'  swank!" 

He  ceased,  and  fell  into  a  fit  of  abstraction.  Neither 
of  them  spoke  for  a  while ;  and  then  Mervyn,  anxious  for 
more,  said: 

"Go  on,  I  like  listening  to  you!" 

"Do  you?  Well,  you're  diff'rent  to  most  parsons 
then !  One  or  two  of  'em  I've  'ad  an  argument  with  about 
religion  seem  to  look  upon  me  as  a  sort  of  moral  mur- 
der-er!  Howsumever,  don't  take  my  word  for  it — I'm 
only  a  bloody  working-man,  though  I've  got  a  faith  every 
bit  as  strong  as  yores.  Take  men  that  'er  something 
more  than  men — great  minds — Darwin  an'  the  rest  of 
'em.  D'you  think  those  men  'adn't  or  'aven't  got  a  faith 
every  bit  as  strong  as  yores?  D'you  think  their  faith  'ud 
let  'em  go  on  bolsterin'  up  what  they  believed  to  be  a 
gigantic  lie?  It's  the  plague  o'  lies  that  rots  men's  souls, 
mate,  an'  Christ-cum-Capitalism's  the  worst  lie  that's 
alive  to-day.  Oh  yes!  I  know  Truth's  a  thing  of  blood 
an'  iron  an'  hurts — but  it  ain't  the  fault  of  Truth,  it's  the 
fault  of  the  people!  They  can't  stand  it — they  ain't 
brought  up  to  it!  But  they've  got  to  get  used  to  it,  by  God 
they  'ave,  if  they  want  to  make  the  world  a  better  place 
all  round  to  live  in.  I'm  leavin'  'eaven  out,  myself! 
There's  plenty  to  do  'ere — an'  we  live  'ere,  or  want  to. 
Don't  you  think  /  think  that  man  can  live  by  bread  alone; 
but  I  say  this:  let  'is  /deals  be  based  upon  truth.  There's 
plenty  of  known  as-certain-able  truth  in  the  world  to  be 
idealized,  and  it  will  be  in  time.  Tons  of  it,  an'  the 
world'll  be  a  better  an'  cleaner  place  to  live  in !  Once  the 
truth  of  Capitalism's  seen  for  what  it  is,  I'm  hopeful  my- 
self— a  downright  optimist;  the  world  of  men  is  young 
yet.  History  goes  back,  what,  four  thousand  years — six 
thousand,  an'  it  probably  took  millions  to  evolve  that 
from  a  fin,"  and  he  held  out  his  undamaged  hand.  "It's 
little  I  can  do — it's  little  I  expecks  to  do, — but  it's  up 
agen  me  to  do  it,  an'  I'm  goin'  to !  If  I  can  'elp  our  cause 
on  a  bloomin'  inch,  I  shan't  'ave  lived  in  vain;  an'  let  me 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  263 

tell  you  there'll  be  plenty  of  others  to  carry  on  the  good 
work.  The  world  'as  got  a  long  way  to  roll  before  the 
last  bloody  bump  an'  she  rolls  into  bits.  The  race  an' 
the  genus  what  produced  a  Darwin  ain't  goin'  to  stop 
short  at  the  /deals  of  the  liar,  the  'ypocrite,  the  'uckster, 
an'  the  snob !" 

He  rose  and  picked  up  his  book — laughing  at  the  ex- 
pression on  the  face  of  his  listener,  while  he  readjusted 
his  injured  arm  in  its  sling. 

Mervyn  looked  up  at  his  big  shoulders  and  rugged, 
indomitable  face.  He  had  listened,  carried  away  out  of 
himself  by  the  spirit  of  what  he  would  have  termed 
MHNIH,  which  seemed  to  pervade  the  man  as  he  talked. 
His  own  perturbations  of  body  and  soul,  which  had  been 
to  him  of  such  an  overwhelming  nature  a  little  time  be- 
fore, had  become  small  things  against  the  foil  of  the 
forces  that  this  rough  stranger  personified.  In  him  he 
saw  that  irresistible  mysterious  vitality  which  makes  men 
great  for  good  or  evil — the  Voice  which  says  there  shall 
be  no  marking  time  for  the  human  ego — either  backward 
or  forward  man  shall  go. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  Wimbledon?"  he  asked  sud* 
denly  of  the  man. 

"Yes." 

"I'll  walk  back  across  the  common  with  you,  if  you 
like.  You  interest  me." 

"Right  O!  Only — don't  try  an'  convert  me,  because 
it's  a  'opeless  game!"  he  answered,  laughing. 

"Certainly  not!  You  are  more  likely  to  convert  me, 
in  my  present  state  of  mind!" 

His  companion  whistled.  "It's  like  that,  is  it?"  he 
said,  suddenly  grave.  "Well,  I've  been  tellin'  you  more 
of  what  I  don't  believe  than  of  what  I  do"  he  went  on, 
as  they  walked  slowly  along.  "It's  like  this.  I  belong  to 
a  society  called  The  Regenerators.  We've  got  a  small 
room  in  Merton,  where  we  meet  once  a  week  for  debates 
an'  one  thing  an'  another.  All  we  try  to  do  is  to  let  a 
little  more  of  the  light  of  truth  into  the  world,  an'  do 
as  much  good  as  we  can  in  a  small  way — cheerin'  people 


264  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

up  a  bit;  'elpin'  the  young  men  to  study  in  their  spare 
time  if  they  want  to;  'elpin'  the  young  women  to  keep 
off  the  streets  if  they  get  chucked  on  to  'em  through  bein' 
out  o'  work  or  bein'  left  by  their  chaps.  'Elpin'  them 
that's  been  on  the  loose  of  both  sexes  into  a  better  state  of 
life  if  we  can,  an'  they  show  as  they're  earnest  in  their 
desire  for  reform.  We  bar  no  one  that's  straight  with 
the  society — Christians  nor  'ethens.  I  talk  a  bit,  some- 
times," he  added  modestly,  "Literature,  Philosophy,  Re- 
ligion, Science — anything  to  give  the  more  educated  of 
'em  an  additional  interest  in  life;  an'  I  write  a  bit  for 
the  Socialist  press.  I  can't  do  much — I've  got  a  wife 
an'  three  little  'uns,  but  I've  'elped  to  pull  a  few  bodies 
an'  souls  out  of  the  gutter,  an'  I  'ope  to  pull  a  few  more ! 
If  you're  a  man  with  leisure,  an'  want  to  do  a  bit  of  good 
in  the  world  outside  yer  own  clars  an'  religion — look 
me  up  occasionally.  You  could  be  a  great  'elp  to  us  if 
you're  not  one  of  the  easily  discouraged  sort,  an  'ave  a 
genuine  love  for  your  feller  creatures.  We're  rough  but 
we're  straight — them  that  ain't  'ave  three  chances  to  be, 
after  that  out  they  go!  We're  not  sentimentalists;  the 
language  is  a  bit  thick  sometimes,  when  they  get  excited, 
an'  their  linen  ain't  everything,  but  swear  words  don't 
damn  a  man  very  deep  nor  clean  collars  don't  make  one. 
Mind  you,  we  ain't  cadgers.  If  you're  well  off,  an'  yer 
'art's  in  the  right  place,  you  can  do  a  lot — but  it's  got  to 
be  the  true  kind  o'  charity.  We  'ave  a  whip  round  oc- 
casionally for  an  extry  bad  case,  an'  you  please  yerself 
whether  you  give  or  not.  We're  nearly  all  workin'-men 
— one  or  two  clerks,  but  clerks  ain't  no  good  to  us  as  a 
rule,  in  fact  they're  generally  agen  us.  For  one  thing, 
they  can't  think  for  themselves  except  in  collars  an'  cuffs 
that  choke  their  brains  an'  tie  their  'ands  to  a  desk;  an' 
they're  as  rotten  with  swank  that  they're  gentlemen  as 
moldy  ships'  biscuit  is  full  o'  weevils.  They'll  never  be 
anything  but  Mammon's  monkeys  on  the  end  of  a  string 
till  they  get  a  proper  union  of  their  own  an'  discover 
there's  bigger  things  in  life  than  countin'-houses.  I'm 
tryin'  to  get  you — it'll  be  a  feather  in  our  cap  if  we  can 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  265 

get  a  gentleman  to  join.  But  I'd  not  'ave  you  under 
false  pretenses,  at  no  price !  Come  down  an'  see  us,  an' 
form  yer  own  opinion  first!"  His  voice  had  grown  very 
eager. 

"I  will!"  Mervyn  gave  him  his  card. 

"I'm  Bill  Ridley.  I  work  at  Thompson  an'  Brown's, 
eyedrawlic  Injineers,  Lambeth.  'Ere's  the  address  of  our 
club  an'  society,  I'm  hon.  sec.,"  and  he  fished  out  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket  a  dirty  card  bearing  the  inscription : 

The  Regenerators, 
Obligation  Row, 
Molehill  Road, 

Merton,  S.  W. 
Wm.  Ridley,  hon.  sec. 

He  held  out  his  left  hand,  and  Mervyn  shook  it 
heartily  as  they  parted  at  the  top  of  the  hill. 

Mervyn  Ingestre  walked  home  through  a  wonderland 
of  dreams  of  a  totally  different  aspect  from  the  regions 
of  fancy  in  which  he  had  been  wont  to  wander  in  the  past. 
He  began  to  wonder  if  this  was  the  same  world  as  that  in 
which  he  had  previously  lived.  The  perfervid  religious 
mystic  had  in  a  month  or  two  gone  over  to  the  ranks  of — ! 
From  the  poetry  of  his  love,  that  had  wrought  such 
havoc  in  his  life,  he  had  leaped  in  an  hour  to  the  no  doubt 
prosaic  and  dirty  human  beings  who,  under  the  high- 
sounding  title  of  Regenerators,  asked  for  a  share  of  it; 
and,  lo  and  behold,  he  felt  already  a  better  man. 

When  he  reached  home  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to  his 
bishop  and,  after  lunch,  went  round  to  the  vicar's. 

The  Rev.  Evelyn  Choate  was  shocked  and  horrified 
when  he  announced  his  intention  of  leaving  the  Church. 
He  summoned  to  his  aid  all  his  arguments,  but  the  young 
man  was  as  obdurate  in  resistance  as,  at  one  time,  he  had 
been  responsive  to  his  superior's  eloquence. 

His  apostasy  was,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  com- 
plete and  absolute. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

CUP  DAY  AT  ASCOT 

THE  valley  through  which  the  little  river  Wandle 
runs,  before  reaching  Wandsworth  on  its  journey  to  the 
Thames,  was  stewing  in  the  heat  of  a  burning  summer 
day.  Mean  streets  of,  for  the  most  part,  modern  red- 
brick houses  alternated  with  patches  of  waste  land  that 
apparently  possessed  a  certain  magnetic  property  of 
their  own,  by  virtue  of  which  they  attracted  a  heteroge- 
neous collection  of  iron-scrap,  rubbish  and  refuse  of  all 
kinds.  Everywhere  was  evidence  of  that  peculiar  brand 
of  poverty  which,  after  a  few  years'  residence  in  a  land 
previously  but  little  inhabited,  and  that  by  the  more  pic- 
turesque, if  dirtier,  poverty  of  a  by-gone  generation, 
seems  to  stamp  a  whole  district  with  the  spirit  of  a  squalid 
tawdriness  itself. 

The  Rev.  Mervyn  Ingestre  walked  rapidly  along  in 
the  blazing  sun.  He  was  still  the  Rev.  Mervyn  Ingestre, 
but  the  termination  of  his  priesthood  in  the  Church  of 
England  as  established  was  close  at  hand — he  was  leav- 
ing it  for  good  and  all  in  a  few  days'  time.  His  chance 
acquaintance  with  William  Ridley  had  by  now  blossomed 
into  a  firm  friendship,  and  under  the  tuition  of  that 
sturdy  mechanic  his  knowledge  of  mankind  had  not  only 
increased  considerably,  but,  as  he  stripped  his  soul  of 
dogma,  he  had  been  agreeably  surprised  to  find  himself 
nearer  to  the  spiritual  presence  of  Christ.  He  had  be- 
come a  fisher  of  men,  and  the  waters  in  which  he  cast  his 
nets  had  revealed  to  him  the  fact  that  human  life  existed 
at  depths  in  the  social  sea,  which,  previous  to  his  present 
avocation,  he  had  scarcely  deemed  credible  or  possible. 
266 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  267 

The  warning  which  Bill  Ridley  had  given  him  upon 
introducing  his  Society  of  The  Regenerators  to  his  notice 
had  not  been  unnecessary.  At  first  Mervyn  was  crushed, 
discouraged,  at  the  seeming  hopelessness  of  the  task 
confronting  him.  But  he  persevered,  and  after  a  fort- 
night he  was  rewarded  with  what  he  considered  as  his 
first  success.  It  was  a  common  enough  type  of  case — a 
drunken  husband,  a  patient  wife,  and  three  little  children. 
The  man  was  hard-working,  but, — when  Saturday  came 
the  bulk  of  his  wages  had  gone  in  "booze"  before  he 
reached  his  home  in  Merton.  Mervyn  had  for  thanks 
(in  his  efforts  to  help  the  woman,  whose  brother  was  one 
of  the  Regenerators)  a  black  eye  and  the  wife's  eternal 
gratitude;  but  he  believed  he  had  succeeded  in  helping 
the  man  through  the  most  difficult  stage — the  "breaking 
it  off."  The  physical  violence  of  which  he  had  been  the 
recipient  upon  the  first  Saturday  of  his  efforts  had  not 
been  without  its  results  when  he  returned  to  the  attack 
the  following  week.  The  man  had  something  of  the 
Britisher's  love  of  sport  in  him,  and  when  in  the  dinner 
hour  on  Monday  he  met  the  parson  with  his  damaged 
eye  in  the  street,  he  looked  round  furtively  and,  seeing 
that  none  of  his  mates  was  about,  he  stopped  and  apolo- 
gized. He  also  borrowed  a  tanner  on  the  strength  of 
it,  stating  that  he  was  broke  to  the  world  (he  generally 
was  by  Monday) ,  that  he  hadn't  eaten  anything  since  his 
last  "blind  O!"  and  that  he  was  beginning  to  feel  very 
hungry.  For  all  of  which  things  Mervyn  had  been  pre- 
pared by  Bill  Ridley  and  the  culprit's  wife. 

"Or  thirsty?"  said  Mervyn. 

"Both  guvner!     But  mostly  'ungry — Horful!" 

Mervyn  produced  a  sixpence  and,  nodding  affably  to 
the  man,  walked  on — without  once  turning  round. 

The  man  watched  him.  With  the  sixpence  in  his 
pocket — the  temptation  to  revert  to  Vegetarianism,  and 
dine  off  a  pot  of  four  ale  and  half  an  ounce  of  shag, 
became  a  terrible  one. 

The  parson  had  trusted  him,  blimey  if  he  hadn't! — 
he  observed  to  himself  as  Mervyn's  figure  disappeared 


268  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

round  a  corner  in  the  distance;  and  the  coffee-shop  had 
his  tanner  instead  of  the  pub.  It  may  be  that  the  six- 
pennyworth  of  veal  and  potatoes  that  day  chanced  to 
be  particularly  good  value  for  the  money,  anyhow,  when 
George  Ginger,  instrument-maker  and  parson-basher, 
came  out,  his  face  had  a  more  dignified  expression  than 
it  generally  wore.  His  wife  was  surprised  at  the  com- 
parative docility  with  which  he  received  the  news,  when 
he  reached  home  that  evening,  that  she  "couldn't  get  a 
penny  more  nor  two  bob  on  the  things." 

At  every  dinner  hour  for  the  rest  of  the  week  did 
Mervyn  Ingestre  walk  along  the  street  where  he  had 
met  his  subject  for  "regeneration";  and  every  day  did 
George  tap  him  for  a  tanner.  Every  day  after  that 
transaction  had  been  completed  did  the  borrower  watch 
the  lender  out  of  sight,  but  not  once  did  the  latter  turn 
his  head.  When  Saturday  came,  the  temptation  to  go 
on  the  "blind" — the  desire  to  feel  jolly — to  shout  and 
sing — to  be  really  and  truly  alive  once  a  week — swept 
like  a  comet  across  the  firmament  of  George  Ginger's 
imagination  as  he  opened  the  tin  containing  his  wages, 
counted  the  money,  and  dashed  the  box  into  the  basket. 

When  he  approached  the  corner  where  a  Red  Lion 
rose  "red-lionally"  in  that  half  playful,  half  ferocious 
attitude  which  all  of  that  species  apparently  prefer  to 
any  other,  and  invariably  adopt  upon  appearing  in  public 
— or  rather,  outside  public  houses — he  was  accosted  by  a 
little  boy  who  handed  him  a  note  from  "the  parson" 
asking  him,  as  a  special  favor,  if  he  would  mind  calling 
that  afternoon  at  the  club,  and  executing  some  small  re- 
pairs and  adjustments  to  a  microscope  and  magic-lantern 
arrangement  they  were  preparing  for  a  show  that  even- 
ing. 

He  read  the  note  through,  and  looked  at  the  boy,  who 
was  to  wait  for  an  answer.  As  a  result  of  his  reflections 
he  said:  "Orl  rite,  matey,  tell  'is  reverince  I'll  be  there!" 

The  boy  sped  off,  and  George  halted  outside  the  pri- 
vate bar — the  thought  of  "arf  o'  mild  an'  bitter:  just 
one  little  'arf  pint,"  being  too  much  for  him.  He  went 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  269 

in  and  called  for  his  beer — half  defiantly.  Two  or 
three  of  his  cronies  hailed  him  jovially,  but  somehow 
their  witticisms  seemed  to  have  lost  much  of  their  charm. 
As  he  finished  his  half-pint  the  barman  waited  and  looked 
at  him  expectantly,  from  force  of  habit,  and  George's 
hand  went  down  into  his  trouser  pocket  and — closed  on 
the  parson's  note. 

"  'Ave  another.  George!"  cried  one  of  his  mates, 
"I'm  a-callin' !" 

Now,  it  has  been  given  as  their  opinion  by  some  who 
are  able  to  speak  with  authority  on  the  subject  that  the 
workingman  is  largely  apt  to  take  himself  at  the  valua- 
tion of  others,  without  troubling  to  inquire,  by  introspec- 
tive methods,  whether  their  estimate  of  him  is  a  true  one 
or  not. 

Mervyn  had  touched  Mr.  Ginger  in  a  weak  place 
when  he  had  appealed  to  his  skill  for  assistance.  "The 
parson"  evidently  considered  he  was  something  of  suf- 
ficient importance  to  be  consulted — not  as  he  was  at  the 
factory,  where,  to  his  employers,  he  was  more  of  A 
Number  than  a  human  being.  He  also  remembered 
that  he  owed  the  parson  half  a  dollar — the  opportunity 
would  be  a  good  one  to  discharge  his  debt  by,  perhaps, 
an  hour's  work.  The  rate  of  pay  appealed  to  him  (who, 
on  piece  work,  was  often  unable  "to  make  his  bob") 
and  he  clenched  the  note  hard. 

The  next  moment  the  swing  doors  slammed  upon  his 
hurried  "So  long,  mates!"  and  he  was  in  the  street  again 
making  for  home.  When  he  reached  his  dwelling  his 
wife  met  him  at  the  door  with  a  look  of  mingled  hope 
and  amazement — the  poor  woman  could  hardly  believe 
her  eyes.  Her  brother  was  in  the  parlor,  anxious  to 
assist  in  the  good  work,  if  possible.  George  looked 
rather  sheepish  as  he  entered.  Without  a  word  he 
counted  his  wages,  with  the  exception  of  three  shillings, 
on  to  the  table. 

Mrs.  Ginger,  thankful  for  small  mercies,  and  half 
afraid  to  believe  that  George  was  turning  over  a  new 
leaf,  wisely  said  nothing,  but  made  a  great  effort  for 


27o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

future  happiness  for  herself  and  the  children  by  an  appeal 
to  Mr.  Ginger's  stomach.  Two  newlaid  eggs  curled,  on 
some  slices  of  boiled  bacon,  round  an  emerald  isle  of 
green  peas — a  ring  of  new  potatoes  completing  the  pic- 
ture which  she  shortly  placed  before  him,  to  his  evident 
satisfaction. 

"Goin'  to  do  er  job  fer  the  parson,  Mary!"  he  said, 
as  the  two  men  went  out.  "Sha'n't  be  long!" — and  he 
wasn't.  When  he  returned,  the  parson  came  with  him, 
and  had  tea.  His  visitor  evinced  such  interest  in  his 
wife  and  children  that  George  felt  a  blush  of  shame  to 
think  how  he  had  neglected  them  in  the  past  for  the 
society  at  the  Lion,  and  positively  glowed  with  good 
resolutions  for  the  future.  He  even  began  to  doubt  half 
pints — even  when  in  large  numbers — were  really  essential 
to  the  happiness  of  man. 

Bill  Ridley,  who  had  heard  of  his  adventures  with 
the  family,  had  warned  Mervyn  to  watch  for  a  relapse 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Ginger,  but,  so  far,  he  had  main- 
tained in  the  mind  of  that  gentleman  sufficient  interest 
in  other  matters  to  keep  him  off  the  beer.  Only  a  spirit 
of  emulation  inspired  by  a  religion  ardent  as  that  of  the 
Regenerators  could  have  induced  a  refined  and  sensitive 
nature  such  as  Mervyn  Ingestre's  to  persevere  in  the 
case — at  first  the  man  really  did  not  seem  worth  it;  but 
when  he  saw  the  improvement  he  had  effected,  and  the 
gratitude  in  Mrs.  Ginger's  face,  he  felt  encouraged  and 
that  he  had  not  lived  in  vain. 

On  this  particular  morning  he  had  just  been  to  a  house 
in  Summerstown,  where  he  had  been  making  inquiries 
in  a  very  bad  case  of  starvation,  and  he  hurried  on, 
thinking  out  a  solution,  unheeding  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
Apparently  he  at  last  arrived  at  a  satisfactory  one.  His 
face  cleared  and  he  slowed  down  in  his  walk  and,  re- 
moving his  hat,  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  fore- 
head. 

Half  way  up  the  hill  he  was  constrained  to  stop  and 
rest  under  the  shade  of  a  tree;  he  was  not  physically 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  271 

strong  and  it  did  not  take  much  to  knock  him  up.  He 
stood  mopping  his  face  and  enjoying  the  relief  of  the 
cool  shade  after  the  blazing  sun — up  here  on  the  hill 
there  was  a  bit  of  a  breeze. 

Suddenly  past  his  startled  eyes  a  dogcart  containing 
James  Burkett  and  his  wife,  with  the  coachman  sitting 
behind,  drove  rapidly  down  the  hill.  He  was  standing 
on  the  sidewalk,  with  the  trees  between  him  and  the 
road,  and  they  had  not  seen  him.  Burkett,  in  spite  of 
the  heat,  was  wearing  a  silk  hat,  and  the  strap  across 
his  shoulder  betokened  his  destination.  Mervyn  remem- 
bered that  Thursday  was  Cup  Day  at  Ascot.  Helen — 
his  Helen — Helen  of  Troy — who  had  played  such  havoc 
with  his  life,  was  so  overpoweringly  beautiful,  in  the 
glimpse  that  he  caught  of  her  as  she  passed,  that  he 
stood,  with  beating  heart,  staring  after  them  like  a  man 
suddenly  bereft  of  his  senses. 

He  had  flung  himself  heart  and  soul  into  his  new 
pursuits,  and,  frequently  tired  out  mentally  and  physi- 
cally, had  found  therein  a  way  of  escape  from  disturbing 
memories;  but  now  he  had  been  taken  unawares,  and  all 
his  passion  awoke  at  the  sudden  vision  of  her  within  a 
few  yards  of  him.  He  walked  on,  at  last,  to  his  rooms, 
and  sat  down  for  half  an  hour — overcome  with  the  heat 
and  excitement. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  he  rose  and,  after  looking  at 
the  clock  and  at  himself  in  a  mirror,  he  went  into  his 
bedroom  and  washed  his  face  and  hands  and  changed 
his  collar. 

In  less  than  an  hour  afterward  he  had  caught  a 
special  from  Waterloo  and  was  well  on  his  way  to  Ascot. 

The  temptation  had  been  too  much  for  him.  The 
chance  of  seeing  his  divinity  in  the  flesh,  even  under 
such  conditions  as  obtained  on  a  racecourse,  a  place  he 
had  previously  looked  upon  with  particular  aversion;  the 
blue  glory  of  midsummer  in  green  places  after  the  heat 
in  squalid  streets;  the  sight  of  women,  cool  and  beauti- 
ful, after  women  bedraggled  and  weary  and  broken  and 
sottish; — his  whole  nature  cried  out  for  a  holiday,  an 


272  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

escape.  Fortune  had  been  kind  to  him  in  that  he  had 
seen  them  that  morning  by  chance — they  had  only  just 
returned  to  Wimbledon,  he  surmised,  having  heard  that 
the  honeymoon  was  to  be  spent  at  Ilfracombe.  As  he 
walked  slowly  along  the  crowded  pathway  from  the  sta- 
tion, among  hundreds  of  fashionably  attired  women,  he 
began  to  realize  the  difficulty  of  finding  her  among  so 
many.  He  had  noticed  that  she  was  wearing  a  large 
black  and  white  hat  and  a  cream-colored  frock,  but  the 
description  applied  to  at  least  twenty  others  that  he 
saw  between  the  station  and  the  road.  Here  he  hesitated, 
considering,  and  decided  upon  making  a  survey  of  the 
front  of  the  stands. 

As  he  reached  the  course,  the  police  were  clearing  it 
for  the  first  race,  and  Mervyn  found  himself  in  the 
middle  of  a  perspiring,  noisy,  jovial  mob,  who  surged 
in  and  out  of  and  around  the  canvas  booths  and  book- 
makers' "joints" — shouting,  laughing,  betting,  eating  and 
drinking:  to  an  accompaniment  of  two  steam  roundabout 
organs;  the  yells  of  outside  bookies  bursting  themselves 
in  their  philanthropic  efforts  to  lay  twenty  to  one  out- 
siders at  six  to  one;  and  the  stench  of  that  peculiar  char- 
acter which  denotes  the  presence  in  force  of  fried  fish 
of  the  humbler  kinds. 

A  month  ago  he  would  have  recoiled  in  horror  from 
any  contact  with  such  people,  but  the  human  sympathy 
he  had  acquired  during  the  past  few  weeks  enabled  him 
to  see  another  side  to  the  picture.  But  for  such  scenes 
as  this,  providing  as  they  did  an  escape  from  the  deadly 
monotony  of  their  ordinary  existence,  their  wonderful 
stock  of  cheerfulness  must  sooner  or  later  become  ex- 
hausted, and  he  had  already  learned  sufficient  from  that 
"proper  study  of  mankind,"  which  includes  woman,  to 
know  that  it  was  not  the  vices  attendant  upon  happiness 
or  an  abundance  of  animal  spirits  which  were  so  much 
to  be  feared,  as  those  begotten  of  ennui,  of  misery  and 
despair. 

And  so  he  stood  there — pushed  and  jostled  about 
from  time  to  time  and,  strangely  enough,  felt  a  better  man 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  273 

for  it.  A  young  woman  in  feathers  and,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, slightly  in  liquor,  was  standing  next  to  him,  sing- 
ing aloud,  in  evident  enjoyment,  the  words  of  the  tune 
the  nearest  roundabout  was  churning  out  of  its  iron  lungs. 
She  was  staring  about  her — alternately  singing  and  mak- 
ing good-humored  criticisms  upon  various  people  and 
things,  from  the  herring-like  skinniness  of  some  of  the 
runners  cantering  to  the  post,  to  the  fatness  of  the  police- 
man's neck  just  in  front  of  her.  Her  language  was  of  a 
kind  more  generally  appreciated  in  Bermondsey  than  in 
Belgravia,  until,  happening  to  catch  sight  of  Mervyn 
standing  beside  her,  she  stopped  suddenly  in  the  middle  of 
a  rather  lurid  retort  to  someone  in  the  crowd  and, 
hurriedly  putting  her  hand  over  her  mouth,  she  looked  up 
into  his  face  with  a  roguish  laugh. 

"Sorry,  ole  dear!  Didn't  see  yer  'oliness!  No  of- 
fense, mate!" 

Mervyn  could  not  resist  a  smile  at  the  mock  dismay 
in  the  girl's  happy  vulgar  face;  and  she  laughed  and 
went  off  again  into  the  chorus  of  a  comic  song  from  the 
steam  organ. 

"Eer  they  come!  White  Cap's  a-leadin!  Ther  fav- 
erit!  No  'ee  ain't!  Ther  faverit's  wun  nuthin!  Blue's 
a  leadin,  I  tell  yer!  That's  wot's  wun  it — Hemper-ater! 
A  bleedin  walk  over!  Gawd  blimey!" 

The  crowd  poured  in  a  dozen  little  rivulets  of  people 
on  to  the  course  as  the  horses  swept  by;  and  Mervyn 
joined  the  main  stream  which,  until  the  recent  alter- 
ation in  the  police  arrangements  at  Ascot,  ebbed  and 
flowed,  between  each  race,  up  and  down  in  front  of 
the  stands. 

He  could,  by  so  doing,  see  without  being  seen;  and 
after  one  unsuccessful  search  along  the  whole  length  of 
the  buildings,  past  the  royal  enclosure  and  back  again, 
his  efforts  were  rewarded,  and  he  saw  the  woman  he 
loved.  She  was  siting  on  a  garden  seat  on  the  lawn  in 
front  of  the  grand  stand,  looking  up  over  her  shoulder 
at  her  husband,  who  was  standing  behind  the  seat  speak- 
ing to  her.  She  had  a  lace  sunshade  which  she  was 


274  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

holding  away  from  her  as  she  talked,  and  the  sunlight  fell 
full  upon  her  beautiful  upturned  face  and  throat. 

Mervyn  halted  at  the  sight  and  remained  stationary 
amid  the  slowly  moving  throng  parading  up  and  down. 
To  have  gone  into  the  enclosure  by  the  course  entrance 
would  have  been  to  risk  a  recognition  that  he  dreaded — 
he  remembered  that  his  clerical  attire  would  render  him 
conspicuous  in  such  a  place.  He  resolved  to  take  up  a 
position  behind  the  rails  on  the  other  side  of  the  course, 
opposite  to  where  she  was  sitting,  and  where  the  back- 
ground of  people  and  carriages  would  make  it  extremely 
unlikely  that  he  would  be  noticed  by  anyone  who  knew 
him.  He  found  a  vacant  spot  by  the  rails,  and  feasted 
his  soul  on  the  Helen  of  his  dreams.  Her  husband  had 
left  her — presumably  to  go  into  the  ring — and  the  sun- 
shade prevented  him  now  from  seeing  her  face.  Not- 
withstanding, he  felt  a  curious  exaltation  in  watching  her 
figure,  her  every  movement,  and,  when,  once  or  twice, 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  his  heart  beat  like  a 
steam  engine  with  excitement.  James  Burkett  came  back 
and  sat  down  beside  his  wife;  and  Mervyn's  gentle  soul 
was  shocked  and  astonished  at  the  fury  of  jealousy  that 
suddenly  awakened  within  him  at  the  sight. 

The  horses  went  down;  and  presently  the  sound  of  a 
bell  was  the  signal  for  the  majority  of  the  people  sitting 
about  on  the  lawns  to  rise  and  look  down  the  course. 
She  had  put  down  her  sunshade,  and  was  standing  up 
talking  to  her  companion — a  beautiful  woman  among 
many  beautiful  women.  She  raised  her  glasses  to  her 
eyes:  Mervyn  saw  a  flash  of  brilliant-colored  jackets, 
above  a  struggling  crowd  of  horses,  cross  his  vision:  and 
then  he  saw  her  put  her  glasses  down  and  turn  to  her 
husband  with  a  laugh.  He  was  ashamed  to  know  that 
her  apparent  happiness  in  the  society  of  the  other  hurt 
him.  The  two  of  them  walked  slowly  up  the  lawn  to  the 
stand  and  disappeared.  He  bought  a  card,  and  noticed 
that  there  was  an  hour's  interval  before  the  next  race — 
the  Gold  Cup — and  concluded  that  they  had  gone  to 
luncheon.  At  the  thought  he  wandered  away  among  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  275 

coaches:  after  much  consideration  he  had  discarded  the 
idea  of  going  into  the  enclosure  where  they  were. 

He  found  a  tent  where  the  viands  seemed  above  sus- 
picion, and  ordered  a  plate  of  cold  beef.  As  soon  as 
he  had  eaten  it,  in  spite  of  the  heat  outside,  he  hurried 
from  the  tent  and  took  up  his  former  position  by  the 
rails  again. 

The  minutes  seemed  of  interminable  length  as  he 
stood  watching  the  front  of  the  stand,  but  at  last  she 
appeared  and,  opening  her  sunshade,  which  was  now  a 
beacon  light  to  him,  she  strolled  down  the  slope  to 
the  rails  and  stood  waiting  by  the  gate.  She  was  close 
to  him  now — only  the  width  of  the  course  separated 
them — and  already  the  police  were  clearing  off  the  crowd. 
Her  husband  had  rejoined  her,  and  Mervyn  saw  the  two 
of  them  coming  across  the  course  toward  the  opening 
in  the  rails  close  to  where  he  was  standing.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  drank  in  his  fill  of  her  beauty,  the  next — he  was 
staring  over  his  shoulder  away  from  them,  and  with 
wildly  beating  heart. 

"Here's  the  favorite,  Jim!" 

Mervyn  had  been  standing  motionless — dimly  wonder- 
ing when  his  scattered  wits  would  rearrange  themselves, 
and  the  sound  of  her  voice  from  behind  him  galvanized 
him  into  a  mechanical  movement  which  returned  his  head 
to  its  original  position,  and  stirred  his  whole  being  into  a 
kind  of  dreadful  joy.  She  was  standing  on  a  coach — 
that  much  he  divined  from  the  direction  from  which  her 
voice  came. 

The  Cup  horses  were  leaving  the  paddock  for  the 
parade,  and  the  people  were  crowding  to  the  rails  to 
see  them.  Feeling  secure  from  observation  in  the  midst 
of  such  a  number,  Mervyn  ventured  to  turn  his  head 
slightly.  The  magnificent  curves  of  her  figure  in  its 
cream-colored  dress  shone  clear  cut  against  the  burning 
blue  of  a  heaven  just  behind  and  above  him.  The  under 
side  of  the  sunshade  was  lined  with  old-rose  color,  below 
which  her  pale  face  glowed  with  a  softly  beautiful  light, 
and  which  made  a  lovely  background  for  her  hair  and 


276  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

eyes.  She  was  studying  the  horses,  through  the  glasses, 
and  her  race  card,  by  turns;  her  husband  was  talking 
to  another  man  on  the  coach.  .  Evidently  keenly  inter- 
ested in  the  proceedings,  even  when  the  horses  had  can- 
tered down  she  seldom  relaxed  her  watchfulness  of  their 
doings;  and  Mervyn  heard  her  eager  voice  clearly 
through  the  general  shout:  "They're  off!" 

She  was  happy,  there  was  no  doubt  about  that. 

The  field  swept  by  on  their  two-and-a-half-miles'  gal- 
lop, with  a  thud  of  hoofs,  and  amid  a  chorus  of  confu- 
sion; and  he  saw  her  turn  and  speak  to  some  people  on 
the  drag,  and  then  from  her  coign  of  vantage  watch  the 
various  phases  of  the  contest  on  the  far  side  of  the 
course.  She  had  put  down  her  sunshade  now,  and,  as 
the  favorite  came  round  the  bend  into  the  straight,  with 
the  race  in  hand,  to  a  tumult  of  acclamation,  her  face 
relaxed  into  a  smile  which  plunged  her  unseen  wor- 
shiper in  the  crowd  below  into  a  very  frenzy  of  mid- 
summer madness.  Emboldened  by  the  fact  of  his  posi- 
tion being  considerably  below  the  level  of  her  line  of 
sight,  he  was  able  to  revel  in  his  adoration  to  the  top 
of  his  bent,  which  is  tantamount  to  saying  that  he  was 
nearer  to  God  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life  before; 
or,  nearer  to  Bedlam — according  to  the  point  of  view  of 
the  reader.  When  he  saw  they  were  preparing  to  leave 
the  coach,  he  resumed  his  former  attitude  and  watched 
them  into  the  grand  stand  again. 

Before  the  last  race  he  left  the  course,  and  waited 
about  near  the  exit  at  the  back  of  the  stands.  A  wild- 
looking  woman  halted  a  moment  before  him,  gave  him 
a  tract  and,  with  a  look  and  voice  suggestive  of  much 
self-satisfaction,  remarked:  "Remember,  there  is 
Wrath!"  Boys  tried  to  sell  him  evening  papers.  A 
loafer  whined  round  him  for  a  penny.  Some  girls  arm- 
in-arm  passed  him,  cheeking  him  cheerfully.  It  was  very 
hot  and  dusty  behind  the  stands.  The  sight  of  water 
from  a  water-cart  soothed  him  strangely.  At  last  she 
came  out  quite  close  to  him,  and  walked  on  across  the 
road,  gazing  straight  in  front  of  her — listening  to  some- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  277 

thing  her  husband  was  saying.  Mervyn  followed,  and 
found  himself  in  the  narrow  pathway  to  the  station,  now 
rapidly  becoming  congested  with  people,  less  than  half  a 
dozen  yards  behind  her. 

The  most  delighted  backer,  as  he  found  his  way  home- 
ward after  the  racing,  had  not  more  glorious  memories 
of  that  Ascot  Cup  day  than  had  the  Reverend  Mervyn 
Ingestre,  who  had  hardly  noticed  the  races  at  all. 

Like  many  backers  of  horses  he  had  invented  a  "Sys- 
tem" which,  theoretically,  looked  right  enough,  which 
was  right  enough  in  itself — leaving  human  nature  out. 
But  human  nature  is  a  factor  which  cannot  safely  be  left 
out  of  any  calculations — whether  in  a  system  devised  by 
a  backer  of  horses  for  regulating  his  investments  or  in 
one  invented  by  a  lover  for  regulating  his  conduct  to- 
ward his  divinity. 

Like  backers  of  horses  and  all  other  mortals  who  seek 
things  in  this  world — be  they  winners  or  women — he 
was  to  experience  a  sudden  and  unforeseen  crisis  cal- 
culated to  try  the  nerves  of  the  strongest,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

As  they  approached  the  station  the  crowd  got  closer 
and  closer.  There  was  a  shout  and  a  scuffle  in  front,  and 
the  next  minute  Mervyn  Ingestre  found  himself  beside 
Helen  of  Troy,  in  the  middle  of  an  excited  Ascot  crowd. 
The  mass  of  people  in  front  of  him  had  suddenly  halted 
and  then  commenced  a  slight  retrograde  movement,  while 
the  crowd  behind,  becoming  thicker  and  thicker  every 
moment,  had  pressed  forward  until  they  realized  that 
something  in  the  nature  of  an  Impasse  had  occurred  in 
front. 

A  member  of  the  "swell  mob"  had  selected  the  spot 
for  an  attempt  upon  his  neighbor's  gold  watch,  but  had 
been  detected  in  the  act  by  a  friend  of  the  victim,  and  a 
desperate  struggle  with  the  thief  had  ensued.  He  was 
at  last  secured  by  the  police,  who  held  him  against  the 
railings  as  the  crowd  moved  on  again  into  the  station. 

Helen  Burkett  turned  her  head  to  look  at  the  man 
as  she  passed,  and  saw  the  clergyman  by  her  side. 


278  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

The  facilities  for  approaching  her  unobserved  until 
he  could  almost  touch  her  had  proved  too  strong  for 
the  Reverend  Mervyn  Ingestre — grown  over-bold  as  a 
result  of  his  previous  proximity  to  her  that  day  having 
gone  undetected.  He  had  gravitated  toward  her,  or 
the  urge  of  his  own  emotions  had  thrust  him  to 
stand  beside  her  and  steep  his  soul  in  the  joy  of  her 
presence. 

She  recognized  him,  and  bowed ;  and  he  raised  his  hat ; 
and  both  flushed  slightly — Mervyn  almost  envying  for 
the  moment  the  rascal  in  the  hands  of  the  police.  He 
wished  himself  anywhere  rather  than  where  he  was — 
the  sense  of  guilt  suddenly  strong  within  him. 

Helen,  the  prey  to  an  agitation,  the  result  of  her  find- 
ing him  at  Ascot,  seeing  that  her  husband  had  already 
seen  Mervyn,  turned  to  James  with:  "You  remember 
Mr.  Ingestre,  Jim?" 

"How  d'you  do!"  James  called  out  to  him,  nodding. 
"Case  of  flagrante  delicto!  Did  you  see  it?  The  scoun- 
drel fought  like  a  madman!" — alluding  to  the  fracas  by 
which  they  had  just  been  detained. 

Mervyn,  with  a  great  effort,  became  coherent.  He 
foresaw  immediate  contingencies  which  would  require 
all  his  presence  of  mind  if  he  was  not  to  make  an  ass 
of  himself. 

"No,  I  didn't — I  was  behind — being  pushed  along 
with  the  crowd.  What  was  it? — a  pickpocket?" 

"Yes!   .  .  .  What  did  you  think  of  the  Cup?" 

Mervyn  hadn't  thought  of  the  Cup  at  all  and,  fearing 
a  possible  racing  argument  in  which  his  ignorance  would 
have  been  so  obvious  as  to  evoke  a  sense  of  wonder  at 
his  being  there,  he  answered  in  the  remark  of  a  military- 
looking  man  he  had  walked  beside  in  the  crowd,  and  who 
seemed  to  be  an  authority  in  such  things: 

"Oh,  a  foregone  conclusion!" 

"That's  just  what  I  told  him,"  said  Helen  of  Troy, 
very  rapidly,  "and  he  would  back  the  French  horse.  He 
thought  the  favorite  wouldn't  stay!"  She  hoped  to  start 
her  husband  talking,  knowing  that  he  was  in  a  mood 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  279 

when  nothing  mattered  very  much  that  was  said  in  re- 
ply. 

James  looked  gloomy.  "Fact  is,  I  didn't  like  his 
breeding,  over  such  a  severe  course,"  said  that  gentle- 
man. 

They  were  on  the  platform  now  and,  feeling  that  he 
was  expected  to  reply,  Mervyn  said:  "N-o?" 

"Besides! — did  you  see  what  Cafe  Chantant  had 
done?"  continued  James;  and  Mervyn  could  only  confess 
that  he  hadn't. 

"You  forget,  Jim,  that  Mr.  Ingestre  is  scarcely  likely 
to  interest  himself  to  that  extent  in  such  matters !"  inter- 
rupted his  wife;  but  James  was  in  a  mood  when  he 
would  have  button-holed  an  archbishop. 

A  train  steamed  in  and,  in  the  scramble  for  seats  which 
immediately  followed,  Mervyn  found  himself  pushed  into 
a  corner  of  a  carriage,  with  Helen  of  Troy  and  her 
husband  sitting  opposite  him.  Already  James  had 
marked  him  down  as  a  man  with  an  open  mind  and,  pro- 
ducing a  book  of  Continental  form,  he  handed  it,  open, 
to  his  victim;  and  the  latter  had  perforce  to  go  through 
the  performances  of  Cafe  Chantant  in  France — at  Paris, 
Deauville,  St.  Cloud,  Chantilly. 

"Didn't  that  seem  good  enough?"  asked  James  in  the 
voice  of  one  justifying  himself. 

The  luckless  Mervyn,  feeling  Mrs.  Burkett's  eyes 
reading  him  with  dreadful  facility,  hazarded  the  opinion, 
as  he  returned  the  racing  guide  to  its  owner,  that  per- 
haps the  journey  had  upset  the  horse — an  excuse  which 
was  generally  made,  he  believed,  from  what  he  remem- 
bered of  such  subjects  in  the  past. 

James  construed  his  remark  into  a  vindication  of  his 
own  policy,  and  turned,  with  an  eloquent  expression  on 
his  face,  to  his  wife.  "I  got  six  to  one,  too!" 

She  smiled,  first  at  him  and  then  at  Mervyn,  and  the 
latter's  belief  in  a  conventional  Heaven  revived  consid- 
erably. 

"My  dear  James,  what  does  it  matter  now !  You  had 
much  better  have  laid  five  pounds  to  four  on  the  winner 


28o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

than  have  taken  twenty  fivers  about  a  loser/  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  if  the  race  were  to  be  run  over  again 
you  would  back  the  Frenchman? — form  or  no  form?" 

Mervyn  correctly  concluded  from  the  silence  with 
which  he  greeted  his  wife's  remark  that  Mr.  Burkett  had 
found  her  argument  one  too  many  for  him — a  not  alto- 
gether unique  experience,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  for  that 
gentleman  since  he  had  married  the  most  beautiful 
woman,  not  only  in  Wimbledon,  but  in  the  world — ac- 
cording to  the  ideas  of  the  Reverend  Mervyn  Ingestre. 

The  latter  always  remembered  that  railway  journey 
as  one  of  the  supreme  experiences  of  his  life.  As  he 
began  to  feel  more  at  ease  in  the  presence  of  the  woman 
for  whom  he  would  have  leapt  from  the  carriage  head 
first  at  her  bidding,  he  discovered  a  sort  of  dreadful 
solace  in  deluding  himself  with  the  idea  that  he  was 
reducing  his  passion  for  her  to  a  merely  friendly  regard 
by  studying  her  at  every  available  opportunity,  by  relent- 
lessly comparing  the  actual  woman — who  talked  "Rac- 
ing" like  a  man — with  her  sister  of  his  dreams.  As  is 
not  always  so  in  such  circumstances — his  last  case  was 
worse  than  his  first.  So  far  from  the  prosaic  surround- 
ings of  a  carriage  full  of  people,  warm,  and  thirsty,  and 
rather  cross,  returning  from  Ascot  through  the  hot  even- 
ing sunshine  of  midsummer,  subduing  the  Dream  of 
Delight  which  she  represented  to  the  young  man — her 
presence  and  close  proximity  to  him  dispersed  the  con- 
ventional atmosphere  of  the  situation,  and  invested  the 
commonplaces  of  her  converse  with  an  unearthly  joy. 

They  got  out  together  at  Clapham  Junction,  and 
found  an  empty  compartment  in  a  Wimbledon  train. 

The  trap  was  waiting  at  the  station  for  the  Burketts; 
and  they  dropped  him  at  his  lodgings,  and  hoped  that 
he  would  call  and  see  them  in  their  new  home. 

Mervyn,  beginning  to  see  the  hand  of  Fate  in  it  all, 
thanked  them  and  vaguely  accepted  the  invitation,  feel- 
ing a  guilty  wretch  for  doing  so. 

He  put  the  sugar  into  his  tea  three  times,  and  his 
hat  under  the  sofa.  He  sat  dreaming  in  the  garden 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  281 

through  the  softly  falling  dusk.  When  a  sudden  fit 
of  restlessness  took  him,  he  rose  and  went  out  on  to 
the  common  lying  calm  and  silent  under  the  summer 
night.  There  he  wandered  about  till  the  strokes  of 
twelve  reverberated  through  the  midnight  stillness,  when 
he  walked  slowly  back  to  his  rooms  and  went  to  bed — 
nor  could  the  slumber  born  of  bodily  weariness  which 
sealed  his  eyelids  shut  out  from  his  subliminal  conscious- 
ness the  wonder  and  the  glory  that  was  Her. 

Love,  being  God,  is  lord  of  Days  and  Sleep: 

Wide  as  the  sundawn  from  the  sundawn  is, 
And  as  the  sun  in  heaven's  own  heart  is  deep, 

The  web  wherein  he  weaves  his  mysteries: 
Days  crowned  of  sleep  as  suns  enthroned  of  days 

Grown  golden  with  their  lord's  investiture; 
Sleep  crowned  of  dreams  by  silent  starry  ways 

In  night's  imperial  purple  portraiture. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

WHEN  WINDS  AND  WOODLAND  WHISPER  IN  JULY 

AT  the  sound  of  hoofs  close  behind  him  Mervyn  In- 
gestre  turned  his  head  and  looked  round  vaguely  at  the 
cause  of  the  interruption,  as  he  walked  along,  a  man 
wearily  restless,  across  the  common,  one  morning  toward 
the  middle  of  July.  What  he  saw  had  at  once  the  effect 
of  startling  him  into  considerable  perturbation.  He 
halted  and  raised  his  hat,  and  remained  standing  irreso- 
lute. 

Mrs.  Burkett  pulled  up  Thracian  Sea  beside  him.  He 
was  certain  that  she  flushed  slightly  as  she  did  so,  and 
at  the  sight  his  heart  began  to  beat  painfully  fast. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Ingestre !  I  think  it  most 
unkind  of  you:  you  said  you  would  call  and  see  us!" 

She  left  off  abruptly.  The  playful  remonstrance  in 
her  voice,  with  which  she  had  commenced,  had  failed  to 
sustain  its  effort  through  the  remainder  of  her  words. 

Helen  Burkett  was  well  aware  that  Mervyn  Ingestre 
was  in  love  with  her.  She  had  known  that  many  men 
had  been  in  love  with  her  in  the  past,  but,  perhaps  because 
of  that  fact,  and  because  of  her  belief  in  Byron's  "Man's 
love  is  of  man's  life  a  thing  apart" — a  belief  which  had 
been  largely  confirmed  in  her  experience  of  the  sex  gen- 
erally— she  had  not  hitherto  attached  the  importance  to 
it  that  the  average  girl  would  have  done.  It  had  ap- 
pealed to  her  vanity  more  than  the  men  themselves  had 
appealed  to  her  personally,  but,  somehow,  she  knew  that 
she  could  not  include  Mervyn  Ingestre  in  the  latter 
category.  She  was  half  afraid  to  think  of  him.  The 
282 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  283 

bravest  woman  shrinks  when  the  capital  sentence  is  about 
to  be  passed  upon  her  by  her  own  heart. 

She  had,  lately,  found  life  with  James  Burkett  rather 
trying  at  times;  and  her  resolutions  to  "make  him  a 

food  wife"  to  the  utmost  extent  in  her  power  had  suf- 
ered  since  the  night  at  Ilfracombe  when  he  had  spoken 
the  other  woman's  name  in  his  sleep.  Since  that  incident 
she  had  been  afraid,  but  not  ashamed,  to  think  of  Mer- 
vyn.  She  had  never  mentioned  the  matter  to  James; 
the  next  day,  she  had  decided  to  dismiss  it  entirely  from 
her  thoughts,  and  to  a  great  extent  she  had  succeeded 
in  doing  so,  but  it  had  undoubtedly  made  her  predeter- 
mined task  more  difficult. 

James  had  taken  a  smaller  house,  close  to  "Down- 
lands"  and  in  a  very  pleasant  situation.  Upon  their  mar- 
riage his  father  had  given  him  a  partnership  in  Burkett 
and  Bowker's,  and  his  means  were  ample.  Helen  was 
not  extravagant,  and  that  ostentation  and  display  which 
are  as  the  breath  of  its  nostrils  to  a  certain  type  of  "better 
class"  suburban  sociey  had  no  charms  for  her,  even 
though  she  was  well  aware  that  she  was  envied  by  the 
majority  of  the  women  of  her  acquaintance — a  tempta- 
tion in  itself  to  extravagance  with  many  women,  when 
the  means  to  increase  that  envy  are  to  hand. 

Those  with  eligible  daughters  had  bowed  to  the  irrev- 
ocable, and  showed  themselves  very  friendly  disposed 
toward  the  young  couple.  They  called  and  drank  tea 
with  her,  and  criticized  her  taste,  her  complexion,  her 
character,  her  hair,  her  frocks,  her  furniture,  her 
servants,  her  garden,  and  her  husband.  She  had  en- 
deavored to  create  a  favorable  impression;  and  the 
verdict  expressed  in  the  general  attitude  toward  her 
was  that  she  had  succeeded.  It  was  true  that  there  might 
be  gipsy  blood  in  her  veins,  and  her  eyes  were  against 
her  (with  the  ladies  that  is),  but  they  could  afford  to 
be  magnanimous,  and  no  one  was  really  perfect. 

Helen,  bored  to  death  at  times,  struggled  nobly  in 
the  part  she  had  set  herself  to  play,  and  acted  the  charm- 
ing hostess  to  all  and  sundry.  They  praised  her  openly 


284  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

to  her  husband;  and  James  was  pleased,  and  settled 
down  into  a  pattern  of  propriety,  and  became  quite  a 
model  young  gentleman  altogether. 

Her  mind  developed  and  expanded — the  more  rapidly 
now  that  the  latent  forces  of  her  nature  were  released 
from  the  stultifying  influences  of  virginity.  After  the 
first  flush  of  passion  had  passed,  the  craving  for  intel- 
lectual, spiritual  sympathy  and  companionship,  which 
her  husband  was  quite  unable  to  give  her,  became  more 
and  more  acute.  The  commonplaces  of  conventionality 
by  which  her  social  outlook  seemed  for  ever  hopelessly 
restricted  became  a  burden  intolerable  at  times,  and 
she  realized  to  the  full  "the  inequalities  of  the  woman's 
position,"  even  while  she  understood  the  price  she  must 
pay  for  a  home  of  her  own.  She  was  ready  to  pay  it  to 
the  full.  But  when  she  had  paid?  She  asked  herself 
the  question  calmly,  judicially,  and  concluded  that  she 
fulfilled  her  duty  to  her  husband  to  the  letter.  She  strove 
to  interest  him  in  a  variety  of  subjects,  with  the  net 
result,  she  told  herself,  that  he  bought  a  billiard  table; 
and  at  her  second  attempt  a  motor-bike. 

At  least,  she  had  Thracian  Sea;  who  was  in  his  own 
stable  now,  with,  for  a  stable  companion,  a  thoroughbred 
"cast  off"  which  James  had  picked  up  for  himself. 

"We  heard  you  had  left  the  Church,"  she  resumed 
after  a  pause,  during  which  Mervyn  searched  his  mind 
for  excuses  without  finding  any  that  his  tell-tale  face 
would  not  have  refuted  as  obvious  untruths. 

His  color  deepened  at  her  words;  and  she  busied  her- 
self with  Thracian  Sea's  mane  to  escape  a  confusion  that 
threatened  to  become  catching  and  general. 

With  a  great  effort  he  smothered  his  agitation  and 
nervousness.  Of  late  he  had  been  working  desperately 
to  forget  and  subdue  his  passion  for  her,  and  he  had 
not  succeeded  without  paying  a  physical  toll.  His  eyes 
were  tired,  his  head  ached,  and  he  was  actually  feeling 
unnerved,  and  weak,  and  ill,  when  she  had  startled  him 
by  suddenly  appearing  at  his  side. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  285 

Without  attempting,  therefore,  to  answer  her  first 
charge,  he  was  fain  to  reply  to  her  last  remark. 

"Yes — I  felt  I — I  felt  that  I  could  be  of  more  use  in 
the  world  if  I  detached  myself  from  any  particular  creed." 
He  gazed  steadily  up  at  her  as  he  spoke,  and  his  eyes 
and  words  almost  deceived  her — but  not  quite.  While 
she  had  no  knowledge  as  to  the  real  genesis  of  his  action, 
she  knew  that  his  explanation  was  only  partial  and  prob- 
ably concealed  his  true  motives. 

She  noticed  that  he  was  looking  ill,  and  she  did  not 
attempt  to  check  the  anxiety  she  felt  as  she  remarked 
upon  his  personal  appearance. 

"The  heat  has  been  rather  trying,  and  the  work  is 
rather  more  exacting  than  were  my  duties  at  St.  Mor- 
dred's,"  he  replied  with  a  faint  smile.  "Are  you  off  for  a 
ride,  Mrs.  Burkett?"  he  added,  evidently  anxious  to 
change  the  subject. 

"Yes !  My  usual  constitutional !  Through  into  Rich- 
mond Park  and  back  again."  She  was  feeling  almost 
desperate  after  a  week  of  heat  and  inanity;  she  wanted 
this  man  for  a  friend  in  the  open. 

As  she  cantered  away,  Mervyn  became  aware  that  the 
struggle  which  had  been  going  on  within  him  for  the 
past  couple  of  months,  if  not  altogether  in  vain,  had  at 
least  utterly  failed  to  eradicate  his  passion  for  her.  In 
a  sense  it  was  stronger  than  ever  before — Love  taking 
a  fearful  delight  in  inflicting  his  severest  pains  and  penal- 
ties upon  those  who  resist  his  entry  into  their  hearts. 

He  reached  the  shade  of  the  trees  and  sat  down  in  a 
sequestered  spot,  listening  to  the  summer  wind  in  the 
dense  foliage  of  the  July  woods.  It  was  a  breezy  day, 
with  white  and  gray  clouds  traveling  across  the  sky 
before  a  warm  wind  from  the  south.  Here  in  the  woods 
the  full  tide  of  summer  was  apparent:  the  birds  were 
silent,  and  a  drowsiness  seemed  upon  all  animate  nature — 
the  drone  of  the  wind  voices  in  the  trees  adding  to  the 
effect.  One  great  cloud  alone  went  darkling.  Just  above 
his  head  it  shook  the  place  with  a  sudden  peal  of  thunder. 

He  certainly  felt  very  sleepy  and  very  tired,  and  his 


286  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

head  ached  dreadfully.  He  lay  back  against  the  seat 
and  gave  himself  up  to  the  pleasures  of  rest.  The  green 
was  soothing  to  his  eyes :  from  where  he  sat  he  could  see 
over  a  small  valley  thick  with  wood,  and  across  the  tree 
tops  on  the  opposite  slopes.  His  mind  followed  the 
woman  who  had  just  left  him,  away  over  the  hills,  and 
on  and  on  to  the  untrodden  plains  of  an  unknown  land — 
miles  and  miles  she  seemed  to  ride,  and  always  he  fol- 
lowed .  .  . 

A  blue  titmouse  flickered  silently  to  the  ground  below 
a  thick  mass  of  hazel  and  watched  the  man  sitting  there 
motionless  on  the  seat;  a  thrush,  with  great  hops,  ad- 
vanced from  the  edge  of  the  clearing  and  stood  in  front 
of  him,  listening — in  that  peculiar  and  intently  curious 
attitude  of  his  kind.  The  man's  eyes  were  closed  now: 
he  was  fast  asleep. 

She  found  him  there  an  hour  afterward,  as  she  rode 
slowly  up  the  ride  through  the  wood. 

The  seat  was  only  a  few  yards  from  the  track,  and 
Thracian  Sea's  hoofs  and  bridle  gave  plenty  of  notice 
of  his  approach,  but  no  sound  reached  Mervyn  Ingestre's 
tired  brain  through  the  thick  slumber  that  ringed  him 
round. 

She  turned  the  horse  toward  the  seat,  through  an 
opening  in  the  wood,  and  was  about  to  speak  to  him,  but 
as  she  got  closer  she  saw  that  he  was  asleep,  and  re- 
frained. He  had  removed  his  hat,  and  the  wind  had 
blown  his  long  dark  hair  almost  over  his  eyes.  After 
a  moment's  hesitation — induced  by  a  curiosity  as  strange 
as  it  was  disquieting — in  which  she  heard  the  voices  of 
all  the  winds  in  all  the  woods  since  woman  first  looked 
through  the  thickets  of  old  time  toward  her  mate,  she 
rode  on  past  him.  The  sleeping  man  had  a  powerful 
fascination  for  her;  and  she  blushed  at  her  thoughts  when 
she  told  herself  that  it  was  a  beautiful  face  she  had  been 
studying.  She  pulled  up  at  the  corner  of  the  wood  and 
looked  back.  He  was  still  in  the  same  attitude — asleep 
with  his  head  resting  upon  his  breast;  and  she  continued 
on  her  way  home  at  a  walk,  a  prey  to  the  discomforting 


'THRACIAN  SEA"  287 

suspicion  that  she  not  only  loved  him  but  that  she  had 
done  so  from  the  first, — a  suspicion  which  the  sight 
of  her  husband,  when  he  returned  home  from  the  city 
that  evening,  did  nothing  to  allay. 

"Helen!" 

The  word  sounded  like  a  caress,  and  Mervyn  Inges- 
tre  sat  up  with  a  start  and  looked  about  him  confusedly. 
He  had  heard  it  very  distinctly,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  himself  alone  in  the  quiet  wood.  Then  he  slowly 
realized  that  it  was  his  own  voice  that  had  spoken.  He 
had  been  sitting  there  dreaming  of  her,  and  had  awak- 
ened with  her  name  on  his  lips.  It  was  late  afternoon, 
but  he  sat  on,  going  over  his  dreams  again  and  again — 
the  fumes  of  a  strange  drowsiness  still  upon  him. 

And  then — something  on  the  ground  arrested  his 
eyes,  and  he  stared  fixedly  for  a  minute  at  a  moist  and 
very  green  patch  of  short  mossy  turf,  a  couple  of  yards  or 
so  in  front  of  the  seat. 

In  the  middle  of  it  was  the  distinct  impression  of  a 
horse's  hoof. 

He  rose  and  examined  it  wonderingly,  and  then  the 
ground  on  each  side. 

The  rider,  coming  up  the  hill,  had  turned  from  the 
ride  and  ridden  past  the  seat  out  of  the  wood,  which 
grew  thinner  toward  the  hill  top,  and  so  on  to  the  open 
heath  behind.  The  higher  parts  of  the  woods  contained 
several  springs  which,  even  in  the  middle  of  summer, 
oozed  up  in  places  through  the  soil,  and  in  such  parts 
the  marks  showed  very  plainly.  He  returned  to  the 
seat  and  gazed  long  at  the  imprint  which  had  at  first 
attracted  his  attention.  A  closer  examination  revealed 
what  was  to  him,  in  his  then  state  of  mind,  a  startling 
disclosure.  About  two  feet  to  the  side  of  the  hoof  mark 
was  another  which  had  previously  escaped  his  notice  alto- 
gether. It  was  faint,  but  upon  closer  acquaintance  he  saw 
that  it  was  complete  and  of  the  same  size  as  the  other. 

It  wanted  neither  the  instincts  of  the  Red  Man  nor 
those  of  the  Black  tracker  to  discover  from  the  position 


288  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

of  the  marks  that  the  horse  had  stood  there.  He  pres- 
ently came  across  two  others  in  similar  contiguity,  evi- 
dently representing  the  impression  of  the  animal's  fore- 
feet. 

He  was  absolutely  certain  that  the  marks  had  not 
been  there  before  he  went  to  sleep,  and  remembered 
that  the  patch  of  moss  had  attracted  his  attention  by 
reason  of  its  brilliant  green  color  and  unbroken  velvety 
appearance. 

The  inference  was  obvious — some  one  had  ridden  by 
as  he  slept,  and  halted  there  in  front  of  the  seat.  Who 
that  someone  was  his  excited  imagination  had  already 
decided,  and,  with  all  his  powers  of  observation  spasmodi- 
cally quickened  for  the  time,  he  traced  the  hoof  prints 
down  the  ride  until  he  came  to  a  damp  piece  of  ground 
where  they  were  clearly  defined.  Close  to  them  others 
going  in  the  opposite  direction  and  obviously  made  by  the 
same  animal,  and  that  either  a  thoroughbred  or  a  pony. 

He  felt  somewhat  rested  from  his  long  sleep,  but  his 
head  ached  still,  and  the  way  home  across  the  common 
seemed  inordinately  long.  Two  or  three  times  he  experi- 
enced a  fit  of  shivering  he  could  not  account  for.  His 
mind,  too,  began  to  wander  curiously  away  from  coherent 
subjects  and  lose  itself  in  a  kind  of  haze,  through  which 
rode  slowly  a  shadowy  woman  on  a  shadowy  horse.  Once 
or  twice  he  staggered  like  a  drunken  man,  and  it  was 
with  some  difficulty  that  he  let  himself  in  when  he  reached 
his  lodgings.  The  old  lady  with  whom  he  lived  was 
for  a  moment  horrified  by  his  speech  and  appearance 
when  she  entered  his  room  to  inquire  about  his  dinner, 
but  the  next  minute  she  was  reproaching  herself  for  her 
suspicions.  Mr.  Ingestre  was  ill,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  that,  and  a  doctor  ought  to  see  him — which  a  doctor 
did,  half  an  hour  afterward,  and  promptly  pronounced  it 
typhoid. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

HELL 

HELEN,  after  her  meeting  with  Mervyn,  had  watched 
that  part  of  the  common  and  the  woods  on  her  morning 
ride,  but,  of  course,  without  seeing  any  signs  of  the  man 
who  had  already  become  more  to  her  than  she  would  have 
cared  to  admit  even  to  herself. 

As  the  London  season  drew  to  its  close  her  husband's 
duties  in  the  city  became  lighter,  and  she  was  much  more 
in  his  society  than  during  the  month  succeeding  Ascot. 
The  approaching  Goodwood  fixture  provided  him  with 
a  never-failing  topic  of  conversation,  and  she  felt  thank- 
ful for  a  subject  of  interest  to  them  both  into  which  she 
could  enter  with  something  of  his  own  enthusiasm. 

"I  wonder  what  made  Ingestre  chuck  the  Church?" 
he  said  suddenly,  one  evening,  in  the  course  of  a  discus- 
sion in  which  the  Ascot  form  was  introduced,  as  they  sat 
talking  in  the  garden.  "I  wonder  if  we  shall  run  up 
against  him  at  Goodwood?" 

She  had  avoided  any  reference  to  their  meeting  with 
him  at  Ascot,  and  her  husband's  words  startled  her, 
though  he  did  not  notice  it.  She  had  casually  mentioned 
that  she  had  met  Mr.  Ingestre  one  morning  on  the  com- 
mon. 

"You  have  decided  to  go  to  Goodwood,  dear?" 

"Yes!  I  vote  we  stop  at  ...  Where  shall  it  be, 
Helen?"  he  answered. 

"Anywhere  you  like,  dear,  of  course !" 

"By  the  sad  sea  waves  somewhere.    Southsea,  Bognor, 
Littlehampton,  Worthing,  Brighton?" 
289 


29o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"Bognor,  then — I  would  prefer  a  quiet  place." 

"Right  you  are!"  and  he  went  back  to  the  London 
betting  on  the  Stewards'  Cup. 

His  mother  called  shortly  afterward  and  joined 
them  in  the  garden.  James  had  lost  no  time  in  informing 
her  of  his  progress  in  his  fiancee's  affections,  before  their 
marriage — anxious  to  remove  from  his  mother's  mind 
the  impression  which  his  words  on  a  previous  occasion 
had  produced.  Mrs.  Burkett' s  relations  with  her  daugh- 
ter-in-law became  more  cordial  as  she  learned  to  under- 
stand the  girl  better;  but  it  was  inevitable  that  she  should 
remember  what  James  had  told  her,  and  her  misgivings 
at  the  time  had  not  been  entirely  removed,  even  now. 
Helen,  feeling  herself  an  object  of  suspicion,  had  been 
the  less  inclined  to  ingratiate  herself  in  the  other  lady's 
opinion,  more  especially  as  she  felt  that  lately,  at  any 
rate,  there  had  been  grounds  for  his  mother's  mental 
attitude  toward  her,  and  her  pride  revolted  from  re- 
course to  hypocrisy. 

"Very  sad  about  poor  Mr.  Ingestre,  my  dear,  isn't 
it?"  Mrs.  Burkett  remarked  suddenly  as  she  sat,  beside 
Helen,  watching  the  antics  of  a  half  grown  bull-pup  with 
which  James  was  playing  on  the  lawn. 

Helen,  who  had  also  been  studying  the  dog,  stared 
blindly  in  front  of  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
to  the  speaker  with  what  had  been  to  another  only  a 
proportionate  amount  of  solicitude  and  inquiry  in  her 
face  and  voice.  Mrs.  Burkett,  however,  noticed  her  hesi- 
tation, slight  as  it  was,  and  the  flicker  of  excitement  that 
still  lingered  in  her  dark  eyes  as  she  asked  in  level  tones  : 

"Why?     What  has  happened  to  him?" 

"Haven't  you  heard?  He  is  seriously  ill  with 
typhoid.  It  appears  that  he  has  been  going  in  for  slum- 
ming since  he  left  St.  Mordred's,  and  it  is  supposed  that 
he  caught  it  somewhere  down  there  among  the  poor," — 
down  there  meaning  the  less  select  lowlands  of  the  dis- 
trict. 

James,  who  had  looked  up  as  his  mother  spoke,  put 
in: 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  291 

"Why,  we  were  only  talking  about  him  just  before 
you  came  in,  mater!  Poor  old  dear!  That's  distinctly 
rough !  I  was  saying  to  Helen  I  wondered  if  we  should 
run  into  him  at  Goodwood.  We  met  him  at  Ascot,  don't 
you  remember? — I  told  you  at  the  time." 

"Yes,  Jim — I  remember,"  and  Mrs.  Burkett  looked 
curiously  at  her  daughter's  profile,  as  the  girl  sat  leaning 
forward  in  the  garden-chair,  silently  gazing  at  him  as  he 
spoke. 

"Well! — he  won't  see  Goodwood  this  year,  that's  a 
cert!"  James  went  on.  "Rotten  luck!" — and  he  flung  a 
stick  along  the  grass  and  wached  the  ungainly  pup  go 
scrambling  after  it. 

"I  met  him  one  morning  on  the  common,  about  a 
week  ago,"  said  Helen — feeling  that  she  was  expected  to 
say  something.  "Now  I  remember — he  was  looking  far 
from  well  at  the  time." 

"A  curious  young  man,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Burkett  re- 
plied. "Rather  uncertain  I  should  imagine — the  poetic 
temperament.  He  is  a  poet,  I  believe,  and  he  paints  as 
well.  The  vicar  was  positively  astounded,  so  he  told  me, 
when  Mr.  Ingestre  announced  his  intention  one  morn- 
ing— quite  suddenly — of  seceding  from  the  Church!  It 
was  just  after  your  wedding,  too !  He  had  not  only 
always  been  considered  extremely  orthodox,  but  deeply 
religious — but  nothing  could  make  him  reconsider  his 
decision.  It  almost  seems  like  a  visitation — this  illness 
of  his,"  she  added,  musingly  serious,  and  very  wide 
awake. 

Helen  felt  a  strange  desire  to  take  up  the  cudgels 
fiercely  on  Mervyn  Ingestre's  behalf,  but  checked  herself. 
"I  daresay  he  found  more  opportunity  for  doing  practical 
good  among  the  poor  people  he  has  been  visiting  lately 
than  when  he  was  at  St.  Mordred's,"  she  contented  her- 
self with  saying — remembering  his  words  to  her  as  she 
did  so.  Her  sensitiveness  on  the  subject  had  already 
persuaded  her  that  Mrs.  Burkett  suspected  her  of  some- 
thing, in  connection  with  the  sick  man,  affecting  her  son's 
interests — nor  was  such  belief  without  foundation  in  fact. 


292  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Mrs.  Burkett  was  a  lady  whose  deeper  emotions  ed- 
died always  round  a  central  object  which  was  her  only  son 
James.  As  is  commonly  the  case  in  such  instances,  that 
natural  sympathy  established  between  mother  and  off- 
spring, which  dates  from  the  first  quickenings  in  the 
maternal  womb  of  the  child  life  growing  out  of  the  root 
fibers  of  a  mother's  being,  had  been  strengthened  and 
increased  by  the  concentration  of  her  devotional  ener- 
gies upon  him  as  he  grew  to  manhood,  until  her 
nature  was  en  rapport  with  his  own  to  a  remark- 
able degree.  Her  mind  was  sorely  troubled  by  an  in- 
stinctive dread  of  "something,"  as  yet  vague  and  ill- 
defined,  and  which  lost  nothing  of  its  terrors  for  that 
reason. 

Some  of  her  remarks  respecting  Mervyn  Ingestre 
were  news  to  Helen,  who  had,  for  a  variety  of  reasons, 
previously  refrained  from  introducing  him  as  a  subject 
for  conversation  before  members  of  her  husband's  family 
or  their  friends. 

James,  who  had  left  the  two  ladies  and  taken  the 
dog  back  to  his  kennel,  returned  at  that  moment,  and 
stood  beside  them,  idly  humming  the  refrain  of  a  comic 
song. 

"Well?"  he  said  smilingly,  after  a  pause,  "how  do 
you  two  hit  it  off  together,  eh?" 

It  was  an  awkward  question  at  the  moment  for  both 
of  them,  and  only  his  mother  answered. 

"Oh,  we've  been  discussing  the  gentleman  who  as- 
sisted to  unite  you  young  people  in  the  bonds  of  holy 
matrimony!"  she  said  with  a  natural  irrelevancy,  and  with 
a  rather  forced  attempt  at  a  laugh. 

"What  ? — poor  old  what's-his-name  ? — Ingestre  ?  I'll 
call  and  ask  how  he  is !  Let's  all  stroll  round  together, 
and  Helen  and  I'll  see  you  home,  mater." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  his  mother  replied;  and  Helen 
rose  and,  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  escape,  went  indoors 
to  put  on  her  hat. 

"How  do  you  like  our  little  nest,  mater?  Helen's  a 
great  scheme  in  a  garden!" — and  he  took  his  mother 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  293 

off  to  show  her  some  of  the  improvements  his  wife  had 
already  effected  therein. 

It  was  a  new  house,  but  the  garden  had  some  fine 
old  trees  in  it,  notably  a  cedar  standing  close  to  the  corner 
of  the  house — its  great  dark  ledges  of  foliage  hanging 
over  a  part  of  the  roof. 

"You  ought  to  be  very  happy,  my  dear  boy!"  Mrs. 
Burkett  remarked. 

"Ought  to  be!  I  am  happy!  Rather!  Helen's  a 
rippin'  girl,  mater,  and  clever  as  they  make  'em!  We 
get  on  wonderful.  Never  had  a  quarrel !" 

He  found  a  pleasure  in  praising  her  cleverness  before 
others — which  afforded  him  some  consolation  for  the 
occasional  awkwardness  it  caused  between  himself  and 
his  wife.  In  the  negation  was  much  positive  virtue  for 
married  folk,  after  all  said  and  done. 

The  tone  of  his  words  did  something  to  reassure 
his  mother. 

"She  has  a  remarkable  mind  for  a  girl,"  Mrs.  Burkett 
answered.  "You  must  not  forget  your  own  studies, 
dear,"  she  added,  solicitous  for  his  future  welfare.  She 
was  rather  afraid  of  intellectually  clever  women — those 
cunningly  clever  she  had  met,  before  now,  in  battle, 
and  had  on  occasion  defeated  them. 

"No  fear!  Next  winter  I'm  going  to  be  a  regular 
book-worm !  Philosophy,  poetry,  literature,  all  the  bally 
lot!"  said  James  cheerfully — it  being  then  the  month  of 

July- 

His  mother  patted  his  arm  affectionately.  "That's 
right,  Jim!  Remember,  having  a  clever  wife  has  its 
disadvantages.  Helen  is  not  like  other  girls  in  some 
ways.  She — she  will  require  intellectual  companionship 
more  and  more  as  the  years  go  on.  I  do  hope  you  will 
be  blessed  with  children,  dear — it  does  make  a  differ- 
ence !"  she^  continued  rather  wistfully. 

James  was  suddenly  silent — the  thought  of  his  beau- 
tiful Helen  one  day  presenting  him  with  a  pledge  of  her 
love  filled  his  careless  mind  and  heart  with  something 
akin  to  awe. 


294  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

She  rejoined  them  the  next  minute,  looking  serenely 
lovely,  after  a  pitiful  fight  with  herself  in  the  bedroom, 
in  a  cool  summer  frock  and  picture  hat;  and  James 
flushed  with  pride  that  a  being  so  glorious  should  belong 
to  him — body  and  soul.  She  seemed  to  grow  more  per- 
fectly beautiful  every  day. 

"My  right  ear  burns  with  the  fire  of  a  true  prophet, 
and  already  the  mantle  of  Elijah  is  descending  upon 
Elisha!"  she  called  out,  as  she  came  down  the  garden, 
laughing,  and  rubbing  her  left  ear  playfully.  "Confess  1" 
In  reality  she  was  in  abject  misery. 

"Yes,  my  dear — we  have  been  talking  about  you," 
said  Mrs.  Burkett  gently.  "I  have  been  giving  my  boy  a 
mother's  and  an  old  married  woman's  advice." 

Something  in  her  tone  made  Helen's  dark  eyes  flash 
a  look  of  gratitude  at  her.  The  girl  took  her  mother-in- 
law's  arm  tenderly,  and  they  walked  up  the  garden  to- 
gether, followed  by  James;  who  felt  rather  uncomfort- 
able, and  turned  his  attention  to  a  host  of  Philistine 
caterpillars  desecrating  the  glories  of  a  bed  of  scarlet 
geraniums,  until  he  heard  his  wife's  voice  calling  out 
that  they  were  ready  to  start. 

They  reached  the  house  where  Mervyn  Ingestre  lived, 
and  James  went  to  the  door  to  inquire  about  the  suf- 
ferer's condition.  Helen  walked  on  slowly  with  Mrs. 
Burkett,  in  poignant  suspense;  the  necessity  for  concealing 
her  emotions  adding  a  subtle  agony  to  the  situation. 
They  stopped  and  turned  to  meet  him  as  they  heard  his 
footsteps  coming  along  the  pavement  behind  them. 

"How  is  he?"  asked  his  mother. 

James  looked  unusually  grave.  "It's  touch  and 
go  with  him,  poor  old  boy,  I'm  afraid!" 

Mrs.  Burkett  was  still  holding  the  girl's  arm,  al- 
though Helen,  half  unconsciously,  had  made  a  movement 
to  release  it  before  he  spoke.  At  his  words  a  tremor 
she  could  not  control  passed  through  her  whole  body. 

Mrs.  Burkett  withdrew  her  hand  without  remark,  and 
they  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  paces.  When  she 
spoke  again  she  had  taken  her  son's  arm,  and  her  sym- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  295 

pathy  for  Mervyn  Ingestre  had  suddenly  changed  into 
something  very  like  hate.  She  was  a  Christian  woman, 
but  she  was  also  a  mother — and  motherhood  existed  be- 
fore Christianity. 

Both  women  were  walking  through  a  part  of  Wim- 
bledon Park  previously  unknown  to  either,  but  which 
each  recognized  now  under  a  title  made  familiar  from 
their  earliest  recollection  by  Biblical  allusion,  though  it 
does  not  occur  in  the  ordinance  survey  for  the  district 
— in  a  word :  Hell. 

James  wondered  vaguely  why  they  were  so  quiet,  and 
he  said  cheerfully:  "Oh,  well,  he  isn't  dead  yet.  It's 
about  an  even  money  chance,  I  should  say!"  he  went  on, 
in  the  voice  of  one,  who,  after  carefully  weighing  his 
words,  offers  his  solution  of  a  problem  with  considerable 
confidence  in  its  correctness,  and  belief  in  its  value  as  a 
formula  for  even  wider  application. 

His  wife  knew  that  her  soul's  happiness  was  at  stake 
in  that  small  room  where  the  fever-stricken  frame  of 
Mervyn  Ingestre  was  fighting,  through  the  hot  summer 
dusk,  the  Shadow  that  would  only  cool  to  slay. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

CUP  DAY  AT  GOODWOOD 

IT  was  not  a  "Glorious  Goodwood"  from  James 
Burkett's  point  of  view. 

He  laid  odds  on  more  than  one  occasion — to  see  the 
supposed  certainty  well  beaten  a  long  way  from  home. 
There  is  something  almost  touching  in  the  faith  of  most 
backers  of  horses — in  their  belief  that  "certainty"  and 
"odds  on"  are  practically  synonymous  terms.  It  cannot 
be  the  result  of  experience,  it  cannot  be  the  result  of 
reason — indeed,  it  is  more  easily  explained  as  the  result 
of  some  temporary  insanity  to  which  even  the  wisest  are 
subject  at  times.  Not  the  least  injurious  of  its  influences 
is  the  demoralizing  effect  it  produces  upon  the  mind  and 
temper  of  the  victim.  James  Burkett  was  an  exception- 
ally good  judge  of  racing  matters,  but — the  gambler's 
instinct,  as  apart  from  the  sportsman's,  was  strong  within 
him.  Though  possessed  of  ample  means  to  satisfy  a 
reasonable  amount  of  indulgence  in  his  favorite  pastime, 
he  became  greedy  with  it,  and  such  greediness  generally 
brought  a  Nemesis  of  disappointment  in  its  train.  For- 
tune, who  had  been  lavish  in  her  favors  when  Thracian 
Sea  had  helped  him  to  a  home  and  wife  of  his  own, 
now — after  the  Stewards'  Cup  had  been  decided — ex- 
erted the  prerogative  of  a  Fickle  Goddess  and  was  as 
chary  of  her  smiles  as  she  had  before  been  prodigal. 

James  backed  the  winner  of  that  race  at  ten  to  one. 
The  fifty  pounds  profit  that  transaction  had  resulted  in 
to  himself  was  promptly  dissipated  in  the  Gratwicke 
Stakes.  He  laid  fifty  to  twenty  on  the  favorite,  and  saw 
his  horse  disappear  behind  The  Clump  one  moment,  when 
296 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  297 

well  leading  his  field,  and  his  money  the  next,  when  they 
again  emerged  to  view.  The  animal  was  then  dropping 
rapidly  astern,  to  an  accompaniment  of  remonstrance 
and  execration  of  various  character  from  his  backers;  and 
unlimited  offers  of  "ten  to  one  the  favorite  don't  win 
it,"  which,  if  not  entirely  lost  upon  deaf  ears,  served  only 
to  increase  the  bitterness  of  those  who  had  previously  laid 
odds. 

Then  commenced  a  driving  mist  of  rain,  which  swept 
over  the  hills  from  the  sea,  wrapping  Trundle  Hill  m 
a  murky  pall,  and  completely  blotting  out  the  noble 
panorama  of  the  downs  and  Charlton  Forest  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Helen  was  quiet  and  distraite  to  a  degree.  Her 
mood,  which  had  become  more  and  more  pronounced 
as  they  got  further  and  further  away  from  London,  on 
their  journey  down  to  Bognor  the  previous  afternoon, 
had  already  evoked  remark  from  her  husband.  The 
shortness  of  her  replies,  which  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  result  of  a  feeling  that  she  was  playing  the  hypocrite 
toward  him,  and  which  at  first  made  him  feel  concerned 
about  her,  now  began  to  make  him  irritable,  when  he 
turned  to  her  after  watching  the  wretched  favorite  pull 
up  last  but  one. 

Half  a  pint  of  champagne  revived  him  somewhat;  and 
he  set  himself  to  solve  the  problem  presented  by  the  last 
race  on  the  card.  His  deliberations  convinced  him  that 
there  was  one  horse  which  represented  something  like 
a  good  thing.  Again  he  laid  odds — five  pounds  to  four, 
"just  to  pay  expenses" — and  thereby  increased  the  latter 
item  by  that  amount.  The  horse  got  badly  away,  and 
was  never  within  hail  of  the  winner  at  any  part  of  the 
contest. 

The  fifty  pounds  he  had  previously  won  and  lost  had 
been  bookmaker's  money,  and  his  disgust  had  at  least 
been  no  greater  in  the  losing  than  had  been  his  exhilara- 
tion in  the  winning  thereof.  The  last  race  made  him 
a  man  with  a  grievance — never  a  very  desirable  com- 
panion, from  a  wife's  point  of  view,  when  all  the  syrn- 


298  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

pathy  of  which  her  nature  is  capable  is  sixty  miles  away, 
at  the  bedside  of  another  man  fighting  for  his  life. 

The  evening  before  had  been  gloriously  fine  when 
they  arrived  at  Bognor.  A  bright  blue  sea,  breaking 
into  silver  white  with  falling  waves,  as  the  tide  made 
slowly  across  a  stretch  of  golden  sands,  had  held  their 
eyes  as  they  looked  out  of  the  open  window,  while  having 
tea.  The  sight  had  appealed  to  James,  who,  ever  eager 
to  be  on  the  move,  clamored  to  be  off  and  away  along  the 
shore.  His  wife,  dreading  the  horrors  of  inaction, 
agreed;  but  the  clear-shining  beauty  of  the  evening,  a 
thing  which,  under  different  circumstances,  would  have 
flooded  her  soul  with  the  "satisfying"  of  that  desire  for 
the  Beautiful  which  was  inherent  in  her,  now  beat  upon 
her  eyes  and  brain  like  a  last  sunset  for  dying  eyes  that 
know  not  peace  nor  hope.  Her  husband's  little  tender- 
nesses— as  they  walked  on  into  the  wind  and  sun  that 
streamed  out  of  the  west,  until  wind  and  sun  went  down 
together,  and  they  returned  more  slowly,  through  fields 
of  standing  corn,  to  the  little  town — became  a  mockery, 
her  surroundings  things  hateful  in  their  beauty.  She  had 
slept  little  through  the  night,  and  when  the  time  came 
to  start  for  Goodwood  she  had  become  so  curiously 
phlegmatic  toward  such  matters  as  Racing  that  James 
began  to  feel  there  was  something  wrong — that  she  was 
sickening  for  a  fever  or  something  of  that  kind.  Then 
he  remembered  Mervyn  Ingestre,  and  at  the  thought  he 
started  with  apprehension.  There  might  be  an  epidemic 
of  it  appearing  at  Wimbledon,  and  his  wife  might  have 
contracted  it.  He  became  downright  alarmed,  and,  with- 
out mentioning  his  fears,  suggested  that  she  was  unwell — 
she  had  complained  of  a  headache — and  that  she  had 
better  see  a  doctor  before  leaving  for  the  course.  She 
had,  however,  so  emphatically  rejected  his  advice  as  to 
reassure  him  somewhat,  and  he  had  forgotten  his  fears 
in  the  excitement  of  the  racing. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  filthy  luck?"  he  remarked,  as 
the  last  favorite  "went  down."  The  favorite  in  every 
race  had  failed  that  day. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  299 

She  collected  her  thoughts,  and  answered  with  a 
shrug,  "The  fortune  of  war,  Jim." 

"But,  Helen ! — the  brute  went  right  round  when  the 
tapes  went  up!  Must  have  been  left  twenty  lengths  at 
least!" 

The  second  day  was  a  repetition  of  the  first  as  far 
as  the  general  results  of  the  racing  were  concerned — 
favorite  after  favorite  "coming  undone" — hot-pots  being 
bowled  over  like  nine-pins — until  backers  became  desper- 
ate, and  plunged  to  get  it  back,  and  only  lost  more  heavily 
still,  and  sank  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire  of  debt 
and  difficulties  and  general  demoralization.  At  the  end 
of  the  day  James  Burkett  was  over  a  hundred  pounds 
to  the  bad,  and  his  wife  was  awakened,  from  her  self- 
torturings,  by  his  flushed  face  and  the  angry  light  in  his 
eyes,  as  they  drove  down  through  the  park  back  to  Chi- 
chester.  She  thought  it  advisable  to  remonstrate  with 
him,  as  she  had  stipulated  before  their  marriage  that  he 
was  not  to  go  in  for  betting  beyond  his  means.  He  cer- 
tainly could  not  afford  to  lose  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred 
pounds  a  day,  and  it  was  quite  on  the  cards  that  he  was 
but  beginning  a  bad  sequence  of  losers,  such  as  all  must 
experience  at  times. 

He  appeared  rather  crestfallen,  as  he  replied.  The 
consciousness  of  having  made  a  mess  of  it,  by  laying 
ridiculous  odds,  was  becoming  more  and  more  acute  with- 
in him  every  moment. 

"Give  it  a  rest,  Jim,  or  bet  in  sovereigns  till  your 
luck  turns,"  she  admonished. 

"Yes,  I  will,  Helen,  only  .  .  .  There's  that  horse  in 
a  selling  to-morrow  I  told  you  of — it's  a  cert !  He's 
above  plating  really — they've  only  put  him  in  for  a  gam- 
ble. 'Drury'  Lane  told  me  it  was  going  to  be  his  only 
bet  all  the  week,"  he  concluded,  wishing  he  had  followed 
the  example  of  that  gentleman  of  histrionic  nickname — 
the  wish  reflecting  itself  transparently  in  his  voice. 

"Well,  Jim,  you  must  know  by  now  that  betting 
is  like  the  barometer — sometimes  it  fluctuates  slightly — 
sometimes  it  remains  high  for  days  together  at  set  fair — 


300  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

sometimes  it  is  right  down  at  stormy,  when  you  cannot 
do  right.  I  do  not  think  you  can  grumble  at  the  results 
of  your  investments,  so  far,  this  year.  Now  you  are 
probably  in  for  a  bad  spell.  Why  not  leave  off  in  time, 
and  cut  your  losses?  'Drury'  Lane  may  be  right,  or  he 
may  be  wrong,  about  to-morrow.  Anyhow,  if  it  is  as  he 
says,  you  will  probably  have  to  lay  odds  again,  and  if 
you  are  going  to  try  and  get  out  on  the  week  on  the 
horse,  and  it  gets  beaten,  it'll  mean  at  least  another  hun- 
dred on  your  losses!" 

James  admitted  the  logic  of  her  remarks,  which,  how- 
ever, only  tended  to  make  him  more  restless  and  irritable, 
as  is  the  way  of  backers  generally,  in  whom  patience  is  a 
particularly  uncongenial  virtue. 

The  following  morning,  when  they  were  preparing  to 
start  for  the  course,  and  he  was  rummaging  about  for 
a  book  of  form,  his  wife  failed  to  answer  a  question  of 
his,  which  she,  in  reality,  had  failed  to  hear,  with  her 
mind  tormented  as  it  was  with  doubts  and  fears  about 
the  sick  man  who  monopolized  her  thoughts.  The  strain 
she  had  undergone  during  the  past  few  days  had  begun  to 
show  itself  in  her  face,  and  she  was  looking  white  and 
ill,  as  he  paused  in  his  search  and,  repeating  his  question, 
glanced  across  the  room  at  her. 

"Helen,  I'm  sure  you're  not  well,  dear!"  he  said 
anxiously.  "I  hope  you  haven't  been  and  caught  poor 
old  Ingestre's  complaint!  There's  a  lot  of  it  about,  they 
tell  me!" 

He  was  coming  over  to  her  as  she  spoke,  when  his 
eye  caught  sight  of  the  book  behind  some  letters  on  the 
mantelshelf,  and  he  went  to  the  fireplace  to  get  it. 

A  dull  red  suffused  her  face  and,  clenching  her  hands 
hard,  she  turned  to  the  window  and  stared  with  blind 
eyes  at  the  sunlit  sea.  His  association  of  her  with  Mer- 
vyn  Ingestre  had  stung  her  to  the  quick  and  lashed  her 
proud  passionate  soul  into  a  tumult  of  guilty  misery. 
Had  he  seen  the  trouble  in  her  eyes  and  face  she  would 
then  and  there  have  told  him  the  truth;  as  it  was,  the 
moment  passed,  and  he  did  not  speak  again  until  he  had 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  301 

found  what  he  wanted  in  the  pages  of  the  racing  guide. 
She  had  recovered  composure  when  at  last  he  came  close 
and  studied  her. 

"My  dear  girl,  you  look  positively  ill  this  morning! 
I'm  sure  you'd  better  see  a  doctor.  Or  would  you  rather 
not  go  to  Goodwood?  /  don't  mind,  if  you'd  rather  not! 
What's  the  matter,  Helen?"  He  took  her  hand  in  his, 
feelingly. 

"I'm  a  woman,  Jim,  that's  all,"  she  said,  in  a  dull 
voice.  "All  women  are  liable  to  their  little  disorders  at 
times.  Of  course  we'll  go — I'm  nearly  ready!" 

She  went  off  to  the  bedroom  to  get  something,  and 
he  stared  after  her  in  silence,  distinctly  uneasy  about  her. 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Jim  was  right, 
she  did  look  ill.  What  she  would  look  like  after  a  day 
or  two  more  of  this  suspense  she  could  pretty  well  guess. 
She  caught  sight  of  a  batch  of  telegraph  forms  he  had 
left  on  the  bed,  and  the  next  moment  she  had  torn  off 
one  in  obedience  to  a  sudden  resolve.  She  must  find  out 
somehow — learn  the  worst,  or  break  down  with  the  tor- 
ture of  it  all. 

James  had  gone  to  the  smoking-room  for  a  paper 
when  she  went  back;  and  she  hastily  wrote  out  a  reply- 
paid  wire  addressed  for  reply  to  the  Bognor  post-office. 
As  she  folded  it  up  and  put  it  in  her  pocket,  he  returned. 

"Look  here,  Helen,  if  you  don't  feel  up  to  it,  we'll 
go  and  sit  by  the  sea.  Perhaps  it'll  do  you  more  good 
than  going  racing  if  you  don't  feel  up  to  the  mark." 

The  thought  of  Goodwood  was  peculiarly  hateful  to 
her.  "I  don't  feel  really  up  to  it,  Jim,  to-day — but  you 
go  at  any  rate.  It's  Cup  day.  I'll  stay  behind  then,  and 
find  a  quiet  place  on  the  beach,  if  you  like — but  I'm  not 
going  to,  if  it's  going  to  do  you  out  of  your  day's  rac- 
ing!" 

He  hesitated.  The  Goodwood  Cup  was  a  great  at- 
traction; and  the  "good  thing"  in  the  selling  race  would 
be  sure  to  materialize  at  a  decent  price  if  he  stayed  away. 
Things  always  happened  like  that.  And  the  train  started 
in  a  few  mwmtes. 


302  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

So  matters  were  arranged.  James  Burkett  caught  his 
train;  his  wife  sent  off  her  telegram,  and  then  went  slowly 
down  to  the  beach,  where  she  sat  listening  to  the  sea 
and  preparing  herself  for  the  worst.  She  looked  at  her 
watch:  she  would  wait  two  hours.  Once  she  knew  that 
he  was  going  to  recover — if  that  was  the  answer  to  her 
wire — she  would  think  no  more  about  him  in  the  future 
than  was  proper  in  the  wife  of  another  man.  If  he  died 

The  morning  dragged  on  slowly  and,  in  spite  of  the 
warmth  of  the  sun  she  shivered  slightly  when  at  last  she 
rose  and  walked  rapidly  to  the  post-office.  The  reply 
was  waiting  for  her. 

Her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  as  she  tore  open 
the  orange-colored  envelope — as  so  many  hearts  have 
done  at  the  feel  of  the  flimsy  fateful  wrappers.  The 
next  moment  it  beat  wildly  in  her  side,  and  her  eyes 
swam  as  she  read  the  message: 

"Crisis  past,  better  to-day." 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!  Oh,  my  love!  If  you 
had  died!"  The  words  burst  from  her  in  a  passion  of 
thankfulness  and  fear,  as  she  walked  back  to  their  hotel. 

"Good  angel!" 

His  words  hurt  her,  but  she  said  with  a  smile,  "Why, 
dear?  Was  the  good  thing  beaten?" 

"Rather!  Six  to  five  on!  and  never  once  looked  like 
doing  it!  Beat  a  couple  of  lengths!" 

"And  didn't  you  back  it?" 

"No,  thank  God!  After  nearly  taking  a  level  hun- 
dred! I  thought  of  what  you  said,  and  didn't  have  a 
bet  all  day !  And  a  good  job,  too — shouldn't  have  backed 
a  winner!" 

She  had  told  him,  in  answer  to  his  inquiry,  that  she 
felt  better.  The  reaction  had  made  her  a  different 
woman.  Her  spirits,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  as  they 
strolled  along  by  the  sea,  were  almost  exuberant. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  303 

She  omitted  to  tell  him  the  reason  of  her  rapid  re- 
covery; and  in  the  thankfulness  which  filled  her  heart 
something  of  her  old  love  for  her  husband  revived. 

They  spent  the  next  day  in  a  small  boat — James  fish- 
ing, and  making  love  to  his  wife;  his  wife — making  a 
variety  of  good  resolutions  for  the  future. 

The  fish  he  caught  were  uneatable;  the  results  of  her 
resolves  are  destined  to  appear  in  a  later  chapter. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

A     NEW     AND     ORIGINAL     CHARACTER     INTRODUCED     TO 
THE   READER 

IN  the  public  library  at  Streatham,  where  she  had  re- 
tired for  a  rest  from  the  blazing  June  sunshine,  her  eye 
caught  sight  of  the  marriage  columns  in  "The  Times." 
Margaret  read  through  the  announcements,  wondering 
wildly  if  she  would  find  her  lover's  among  the  names. 
She  did  not;  but  an  idea  had  occurred  to  her.  She  asked 
the  assistant  if  she  could  examine  the  files  of  the  paper 
for  the  past  few  months. 

Strangely  excited,  she  searched  through  June  with- 
out result — turning  the  pages  with  hands  that  trembled 
not  a  little. 

The  issues  for  May  contained  but  few  announce- 
ments, and  her  task  was  easier.  Suddenly  she  stopped 
and  caught  her  breath  with  a  gasp. 

BURKETT-DARELL.  On  the  2Oth  inst.,  at  St.  Mordred's, 
Wimbledon,  by  the  Rev.  Evelyn  Choate,  M.  A.,  James  Bertram 
Burkett,  only  son  of  Bertram  Burkett,  of  Wimbledon  Park,  to 
Helen,  only  daughter  of  the  late  Montague  Darell,  of  Parham 
Bridges,  Rutland. 

She  swayed  slightly,  making  a  brave  effort  to  control 
her  misery,  and  read  and  re-read  the  fateful  lines  me- 
chanically a  dozen  times.  With  colorless  face  and  pitiful 
eyes,  she  hurried  back  to  the  reading-room  and,  blindly 
picking  up  a  magazine,  sat  down  and  pretended  to  read, 
through  a  mist  of  silent  tears.  Although  she  had  con- 
templated his  marriage  as  a  thing  inevitable,  the  sudden 
shock  of  finding  it  already  an  accomplished  fact  was  a 

304 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  305 

dreadful  one  for  the  girl.  He  had  been  married  nearly 
three  weeks! 

"Oh,  my  baby!  My  poor  baby!"  she  began,  to  her- 
self. 

A  spasm  of  hate  and  jealousy  toward  the  Helen  of 
the  advertisement,  which  even  her  gentle  forgiving  nature 
was  not  capable  of  entirely  subduing,  followed;  and,  feel- 
ing that  her  suppressed  sobs  were  beginning  to  choke  her, 
she  rose  and  left  the  building. 

She  found  her  way  to  a  quiet  part  of  Tooting  Com- 
mon and,  throwing  herself  down  in  the  shade  of  a  tree, 
broke  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  sobbing. 

It  was  very  hot,  even  under  the  trees,  and  gradually 
her  sobs  grew  less  and  less;  she  was  too  exhausted  to 
feel  anything  any  more.  She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow 
and  lay  staring  with  tired  red  eyes  at  the  bright  sunshine. 
In  the  distance,  two  nurse  girls  were  walking  with  some 
children,  and  their  happy  laughing  voices  reached  her 
ears  from  time  to  time. 

Her  own  unborn  child  stirred  within  her,  and  burying 
her  face  in  her  hands  she  wept  again.  The  thought  that 
another  woman  would  bear  him  children  and  that  her  own 
child  would  be  nameless  and  fatherless  was  the  last  straw 
to  her  load  of  bitterness.  She  lay  and  quivered  from 
head  to  foot  as  from  a  lash.  Then,  the  very  intensity  of 
her  anguish  produced  a  merciful  numbness.  Gradually 
she  dozed  off  into  slumber — worn  out  with  the  heat  and 
her  own  emotions. 

When  she  awoke  she  was  surprised  to  find  that  it  was 
nearly  five  o'clock.  She  rose  and  walked  back  sadly 
across  the  common  to  Mrs.  Rush's.  Every  little  one  she 
passed  seemed  to  look  at  her  reproachfully,  and  awakened 
in  her  a  tempest  of  misery.  As  the  time  approached 
when  she  would  be  a  mother,  a  thousand  doubts  and 
fears  for  her  child  began  to  assail  her.  Had  she  done 
right  to  cut  herself  adrift  entirely  from  its  father?  Well, 
it  was  too  late  now!  Besides,  she  must  try  and  be 
cheerful — she  had  much  to  be  thankful  for!  As  she 
thought  of  Mrs.  Rush,  the  orphan  girl's  heart  yearned  to 


3o6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

the  woman  as  to  a  mother.  She  trembled  to  think  what 
might  have  happened  to  her. 

Mrs.  Rush  was  waiting  anxiously  for  her  when  she 
arrived,  and,  noticing  obvious  signs  of  her  recent  dis- 
tress, that  good  woman  pushed  her  into  a  chair,  and 
brought  her  a  cup  of  tea.  Then  she  produced  from  her 
pocket  a  baby's  sock  which  she  had  been  knitting. 

"There!   there!    Don't  you  fret,  there's  a  dear!" 

Margaret  felt  too  broken  to  respond  except  by  a 
silent  pressure  of  the  hand,  as  she  took  the  tiny  article 
from  her.  She  kept  the  news  which  the  day  had  brought 
her  to  herself.  Mrs.  Rush,  after  "clearing  away," 
brought  out — in  an  unfinished  condition — the  fellow  to 
the  sock  that  Margaret  was  still  clasping  tightly,  and  then 
went  on  knitting  in  an  ostentation  of  cheerfulness  not 
without  its  beneficial  effect  upon  the  girl. 

"You  seem  determined  that  I  shan't  be  miserable, 
Mrs.  Rush,"  she  said,  after  watching  in  silence  the  bone 
needles  busily  at  work.  "Indeed,  I'm  that  ungrateful  to 
feel  miserable  at  all,  only  ...  I  can't  help  it  some- 
times," she  added. 

"Of  course  not,  my  dear!  But  there !  'Tis  no  use  cry- 
ing over  spilt  milk!  Lor,  my  dear,  we've  all  of  us  got 
something  to  be  thankful  for,  an'  if  we  can't  'elp  another 
body  now  an'  again  when  'tis  in  our  power  to  do  so,  we're 
poor  creechures,  I  say!"  and  Mrs.  Rush's  fingers  went 
faster  than  ever,  as  though  her  philosophy  was  a  very 
present  help  in  time  of  knitting — as  it  probably  was. 

"An'  as  for  the  folks  what  say  an'  believe  nasty 
things  about  their  feller  creechures — all  I  can  say  is" — 
she  resumed,  after  stretching  out  and  examining  the 
stitches  critically  for  a  moment,  "let  'em  look  to  the  moth 
what's  in  their  own  eye,  afore  they  starts  a-talkin'  about 
the  beam  what's  in  other  people's !" 

The  weeks  went  on.  One  evening — one  magnificent 
evening  toward  the  end  of  August,  when  old  London  sur- 
passed herself  in  sunset  effects,  when  the  western  sky 
blazed  with  gold  and  green  and  purple,  and  fleckings  of 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  307 

cloud  dappled  the  zenith  like  rosy-tinted  waves  across 
a  sapphire  sea — the  youngster  made  his  entry  into  the 
realms  of  a  separate  existence. 

The  following  evening,  Margaret  lay,  with  the  soft 
warm  light  of  a  great  contentment  in  her  eyes,  looking 
out  at  the  sunset  as  tiny  hands  clasped  and  unclasped 
themselves  on  her  breast.  A  wonderful  peace  had  fallen 
upon  her  simple  soul,  and  sin  and  shame  and  sorrow  had 
passed  from  Jher  like  the  shades  of  night  before  the  dawn 
of  a  glory  that  was  motherhood. 

Mrs.  Rush,  good  soul,  moved  quietly  about  the  room, 
alternating  her  visits  to  the  bedside — where  she  gazed, 
with  something  in  her  eyes  like  a  reflection  of  the  light 
that  was  in  Margaret's  own,  at  the  girl's  rapt  face  and  at 
the  tiny  pink  scrap  of  humanity  nestled  against  her — with 
adjournments  to  the  landing  outside  the  door,  where  she 
wiped  her  eyes  fiercely  with  a  handkerchief  from  time  to 
time. 

After  one  of  these  excursions,  as  she  returned  to  the 
room,  the  girl  was  saying  half  aloud:  "He's  like  Jim! 
Oh,  he  is  like  Jim!"  and  Mrs.  Rush  for  the  first  time 
learned  the  name  of  the  author  of  the  existence  of  the 
little  creature — who,  if  he  resembled  anything  more 
than  an  exceedingly  pink  baby,  resembled  an  extraor- 
dinarily fat  one. 

He  was  a  sturdy  young  man — his  protests  when  in- 
terrupted in  the  most  engrossing  and  important  branch  of 
infantile  education  bearing  unmistakable  witness  to  the 
soundness  and  capacity  of  his  lungs. 

Mrs.  Rush,  finding  that  Margaret  and  the  boy  were 
"doin'  nicely,"  determined  to  put  into  practice  an  idea 
which  had  long  been  maturing  in  her  mind.  Margaret, 
the  day  before  her  confinement,  had  confided  the  name 
and  address  of  her  aunt  to  Mrs.  Rush,  with  instructions 
to  write  to  Miss  Deborah  Yeomans,  if  anything  happened 
to  her.  She  was  to  inclose  a  letter  of  the  girl's,  asking 
forgiveness,  and  pleading  for  the  little  one  if  it  survived. 


308  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

He  was  now  a  week  old;  and  Mrs.  Rush  decided  to 
move  in  the  matter  on  her  own  account  without  consult- 
ing Margaret  Therefore  she  wrote  to  Aunt  Deb  and, 
after  a  brief  account  of  Margaret's  adventures  and  the 
birth  of  her  "lovely  boy,"  invited  her  aunt  to  come  and 
see  her  niece — if  she  would  like  to,  and  had  forgiven  her. 
She  stated  that  Margaret  had  become  so  endeared  to  her- 
self and  Mr.  Rush  that  the  girl  could  always  find  a 
home  with  them,  but  added  that  she  considered  it  her 
duty  to  acquaint  Miss  Deborah  Yeomans  with  the  facts, 
which  Margaret,  although  she  had  written  regularly  to 
her  aunt,  had  refrained  from  mentioning. 

When  the  letter  reached  her,  Aunt  Deb  was  not  so 
surprised  at  the  news  as  Mrs.  Rush  had  anticipated,  but 
the  generous  spirit  which  breathed  through  the  words 
evoked  an  answering  echo  in  Miss  Deborah  herself. 
She  had  long  ago  forgiven  her  niece,  and  immediately 
dispatched  an  answer  in  which  she  not  only  said  so,  but 
in  which  she  poured  a  thousand  blessings  on  the  head  of 
Mrs.  Rush  for  her  goodness  to  the  girl,  and  stated  that 
she  was  starting  for  Balham  by  the  first  train  next 
morning. 

Mrs.  Rush  was  delighted  with  the  tone  of  her  reply 
to  her  letter  and,  after  a  little  preliminary  skirmishing, 
she  informed  Margaret  that  she  had  received  a  most 
kind  letter  from  her  aunt,  and  that  the  latter  was  coming 
to  see  her. 

The  girl  received  the  news  with  a  burst  of  tears,  but 
soon  calmed  down,  and  thanked  Mrs.  Rush  for  her  kind 
efforts  to  restore  her  to  Aunt  Deb. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Rush  attired  herself  in  her 
"Sunday  best" — a  plum-colored  dress  which  appeared 
only  on  state  occasions — while  Mr.  Rush  received  in- 
structions, as  he  left  to  go  to  a  job  early  that  morning, 
not  on  any  account  to  appear  until  he  had  washed  and 
changed  his  working  clothes. 

At  the  sound  of  wheels  stopping  outside  about  mid- 
day, she  rushed  to  the  window  in  time  to  see  a  statelier, 
taller,  older,  darker  and  plainer  edition  of  Margaret 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  309 

descend  from  a  station  cab.  She  skipped  downstairs, 
after  smoothing  her  dress  and  hair,  and  invited  her 
visitor  into  the  parlor,  where  Miss  Deborah  seized  her 
hand,  and,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  in  a  broken  voice, 
thanked  her  for  all  her  goodness  to  her  poor  child. 

Mrs.  Rush  begged  her  to  be  seated  while  she  went  up 
to  see  if  the  girl  was  ready  to  receive  her  aunt — glad  her- 
self to  escape  from  a  rather  embarrassing  situation. 

She  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  and  informed  her 
visitor  that  Margaret  was  waiting,  overjoyed  at  the 
thought  of  being  restored  to  her  "dear  Aunt  Deb,"  but 
begging  her  to  be  careful  not  to  over-excite  her  in  any 
way. 

With  features  working,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
appear  calm  and  collected,  Aunt  Deb  entered  the  room. 

"Margaret!  My  poor  darling!  Thank  God  I've 
found  ee  again!"  and  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her  niece 
passionately,  and  pressed  her  to  her  bosom,  and  then 
kissed  and  hugged  the  baby;  which  done,  the  two  women 
mingled  their  tears  together  for  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  nice  and  comfortably  without  any  necessity  for  re- 
straint, and  to  the  infinite  relief,  apparently,  of  both. 
Then  Aunt  Deb  began  wiping  her  niece's  eyes,  and  Mar- 
garet returned  the  compliment;  and  the  baby,  who  had 
been  rather  neglected  during  the  process,  began  to  make 
himself  heard  in  no  uncertain  voice;  and  Miss  Deborah 
felt  constrained  to  call  up  Mrs.  Rush,  who  was  "enjoying 
a  good  cry  of  her  own"  downstairs  over  the  cat,  to  that 
animal's  considerable  discomfort  and  annoyance. 

The  son  of  James  and  Margaret  was  the  recipient  of 
much  admiring  criticism  and  lavish  adulation  as  he 
sprawled  in  a  variety  of  undignified  attitudes  on  the  bed, 
— a  target  for  a  hail  of  nomenclature  quite  unknown  to 
the  pages  of  the  English  Dictionary,  and  innumerable 
caresses,  bestowed  on  various  parts  of  his  anatomy  by 
each  of  his  worshipers  in  turn.  He  took  it  all  in  very 
good  part,  though  in  an  excess  of  exuberant  spirits  he 
playfully  "upper-cut"  his  mamma,  and  steadied  little 
Mrs.  Rush  with  a  right  swing  in  the  eye. 


310  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

At  length  growing  tired  of  their  attentions,  he  com- 
menced to  make  alarming  sounds  in  his  throat,  and 
evinced  a  most  decided  preference  for  the  society  of  his 
parent;  whereupon,  Mrs.  Rush  suddenly  remembered 
that  she  had  "forgot  the  dinner"  and  fled  hurriedly; 
while  Aunt  Deb  gazed  at  the  blushing  girl  with  mingled 
looks  of  awe  and  affection.  She  had  brought  her  hand- 
bag with  her  when  she  came  up  to  Margaret's  room. 
Now  she  opened  it,  and  produced  a  number  of  those 
various  garments  which  invariably  take  definite  shape 
upon  the  expectation  of  the  most  important  event  in 
human  lives,  and  which  are  as  much  above  proper  de- 
scription by  a  man  as  are  above  his  capacity  for  ade- 
quate appreciation  the  wonders  of  which  they  are  sym- 
bolical. 

"O  .  .  .  h!  Aunt!  How  did  you  ..."  the  young 
mother  gasped,  as  her  relative  displayed  them  carefully 
upon  the  bed  before  her. 

"Tush,  my  dear!"  said  Aunt  Deb,  with  conscious 
pride  in  her  prevision  and  workmanship.  "Trust  an  old 
woman  for  being  not  quite  a  fool !" 

Aunt  Deb  had  been  busy  at  the  cottage  in  Stoke  Mid- 
ford. 

"Why,  aunt,  you're  not  old!"  said  Margaret. 

There  I  will  leave  them. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

AUNT  DEB'S  DIFFICULTIES,  AND  THEIR  SOLUTION 

IN  the  golden  haze  of  a  September  sun  Aunt  Deb  and 
Margaret —  the  latter  fearfully  clasping  her  baby  as  she 
walked — left  Mrs.  Rush's  one  morning  soon  afterward, 
and  went  on  to  the  common. 

Aunt  Deb  had  found  a  lodging  close  by.  She  had  de- 
cided to  remain  in  Balham,  for  a  time,  at  any  rate.  She 
had  something  to  impart  to  her  niece  which  was  of  a  con- 
fidential and  rather  difficult  nature. 

They  sat  down  on  a  seat — Margaret  too  engrossed 
with  her  precious  burden  to  notice  a  certain  uneasiness  in 
her  aunt's  manner;  and  presently  the  latter  said: 

"You  remember  Mr.  Gates,  dear?" 

"Yes,  aunt?"  and  the  young  mother  went  on  with  one 
of  those  "imaginary  conversations"  between  herself  and 
her  offspring,  which,  if  not  always  original,  are  always 
interesting  to  at  least  one  party  concerned. 

Aunt  Deb  coughed  two  or  three  times.  "He — he's 
asked  me  to  marry  him,  Margaret." 

"Aunt!" 

Margaret  was  too  astonished  to  express  anything  but 
the  surprise  in  her  voice  for  a  moment,  and  she  stared 
at  her  aunt,  who  blushed  like  a  girl  under  her  scrutiny. 

"Oh,  aunt!    I  ...  I  am  glad!"  she  burst  out  at  last. 

"Are  ee,  dear?"  Aunt  Deb's  eyes  had  become  very 
soft  and  moist,  and  she  seemed,  somehow,  to  have  grown 
twenty  years  younger. 

"And  .  .  .  aunt?'; 

"I  ...  couldn't  give  him  my  answer  until  I'd  seen  ee, 
my  dear!" 


312  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"Oh,  aunt!  You're  too  good  to  me!  I  don't  de- 
serve ..."  Margaret  felt  a  lump  in  her  throat,  and  left 
off  abruptly. 

"He  was  .  .  .  rather  fond  of  me  .  .  .  when  I  was  a 
girl,  dear,  and  ..."  Aunt  Deb  gazed  through  the  mel- 
low sunlight  at  a  man  and  maid  who  had  wandered 
through  just  such  another  golden  autumn  morning  long 
ago. 

"You  must  write  and  accept  him  at  once!"  said  the 
young  matron,  with  an  air  of  one  having  authority  in 
such  matters. 

Her  aunt  laughed  at  her  eagerness,  and  suppressed 
her  own  happiness  out  of  consideration  for  the  girl's 
feelings.  She  had,  after  finding  Margaret,  written  to 
Mr.  Gates — informing  him,  in  confidence,  of  her  trouble, 
and  pointing  out  the  impossibility  of  leaving  her  niece  to 
her  own  resources. 

Michael  Gates  replied  that  he  respectfully  hoped  that 
Miss  Deb  would  not  go  for  to  let  that  stand  atween  them ; 
that  his  home  was  open  to  the  girl,  and  freely — she  could 
find  plenty  for  herself  to  do  in  the  farm  and  dairy;  arid 
that  he  was  glad  to  think  he  could  be  of  service  to  the 
poor  maid,  nor  need  anyone  know  the  facts  of  her 
trouble.  He  was  a  bachelor  of  fifty,  who,  after  being 
rejected  by  Miss  Deborah  some  thirty  years  before,  had 
felt  no  inclination  to  try  his  lot  elsewhere  with  any  others 
of  the  sex,  and  who  had  henceforth  devoted  himself  to  his 
horses  and  cows,  with  an  occasional  visit  to  the  object  of 
his  youthful  affections.  He  was  of  the  type  best  described 
as  "steady-going,"  and  Aunt  Deb,  who  at  eighteen  had 
refused  him  perhaps  because  of  that  reason  (perhaps, 
also,  because  of  certain  sporting  recreations  of  a  pugilistic 
nature,  which  were  his  only  exuberance),  had  sadly  re- 
gretted as  the  years  went  on  that  he  had  not  asked  her  to 
reconsider  her  decision.  Happening  to  call  as  he  was  pass- 
ing through  Midford  (he  lived  at  Hazley  Parva,  in  the 
north  of  the  county,  some  twenty  miles  away)  he  had 
asked  after  Margaret,  and  upon  hearing  that  she  had 
gone  to  live  in  London,  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  it 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  313 

must  be  lonely  for  Miss  Deb.  He  had  expressed  that 
opinion  with  an  inflection  of  his  voice  and  an  anxiety 
which  had  made  the  poor  woman's  heart  beat  with  quite 
an  alarming  rapidity,  and  she  had  hurried  off  to  fetch 
him  another  mug  of  ale,  uncertain  whether  to  feel  happy 
or  miserable. 

When  he  repeated  his  visit  shortly  afterward,  for 
the  purpose  of  presenting  her  with  a  sitting  of  Buff 
Orpingtons,  he  had  discovered  her  chicken-run  to  be  in 
such  a  deplorable  condition  that  it  was  only  neighborly 
that  he  should  drive  over  the  following  day  and  repair 
it — he  had  seen  outliers  as  thick  as  rabbits,  in  the  gorse 
round  the  Crossways. 

Miss  Deb  had  other  things  beside  fowl-houses  that 
wanted  repairing — her  heart,  for  one;  and  between  fear 
of  losing  him  again,  and  the  impossibility  of  her  situation 
brought  about  by  her  niece's  absence,  she  had  suffered 
considerably. 

She  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  had  it  not  been  for  the 
girl's  leaving  her  alone  he  might  never  have  asked  her 
the  question  that  he  did  ask  her,  upon  the  completion  of 
his  self-imposed  task,  one  evening  as  the  sun  went  down. 
The  run  had  revealed,  upon  closer  inspection,  a  need  of 
more  extensive  repairs  than  had  at  first  seemed  necessary, 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  surprise  and  regret  at  this 
discovery  were  entirely  genuine  on  either  side. 

Margaret,  who  had  been  indirectly  the  means  to  the 
potentialities  of  happiness,  now  directly  prevented  them 
from  developing  into  the  reality. 

Aunt  Deb  produced  from  her  pocket  Michael's  reply 
to  her  letter  and  handed  it  to  Margaret.  The  girl  read 
it  with  swimming  eyes,  hugging  her  child  the  closer  as 
she  did  so.  As  she  returned  it  to  her  aunt  she  burst  into 
tears,  in  which  remorse  for  the  trouble  she  had  brought 
on  the  woman  who  loved  her  mingled  with  joy  and  thank- 
fulness. She  was  for  telegraphing;  but  Aunt  Deb  dis- 
missed such  methods  as  indecorous,  and  promised  to  write 
by  the  country  post  that  afternoon.  She  had  waited 
thirty  years  patiently — she  could  surely  refrain  from  in- 


3i4  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

decent  haste  for  a  day!  Indeed,  she  felt  half  annoyed 
with  Margaret  at  the  suggestion ;  but  Margaret  had  com- 
menced a  lullaby  above  a  pair  of  round  blue  eyes  staring 
with  infantile  wonder  at  his  mother's  face  bending  over 
him,  and  poor  Miss  Deb  forgot  everything  else  in  that 
saddest  of  the  whole  range  of  human  reflections — "What 
might  have  been." 

"Good-bye,  Mrs.  Rush!"  Margaret  could  scarcely 
speak  the  words  as  she  kissed  the  good  Samaritan  who 
had  succored  her  in  her  direst  need. 

"Now  don't  forget  you'm  both  to  come  and  stay  with 
us,  and  that  you'll  always  be  welcome!"  said  Aunt  Deb — 
now  Mrs.  Michael  Gates. 

"Aye,  that  ye  will  be!"  echoed  her  husband,  whose 
good-natured  face  showed  his  appreciation  of  the  good 
qualities  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rush.  "An  if  so  be  should  be 
lookin'  fur  a  nice  purty  little  cottage  with  'bout  acre  an' 
ha-a-rf  to  ut,  any  time,"  he  added  to  Mr.  Rush,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  that  gardener,  "Ah'm  yer  man!" 

Margaret  had  remained  in  Balham  with  the  baby 
until  her  aunt  had  disposed  of  the  Midford  cottage  and 
the  marriage  was  over.  At  the  end  of  October  they  had 
come  up  to  London  to  fetch  her  back  to  her  future  home; 
and  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Gates  in  the  presence  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Rush  had  lost  something  of  its  terrors  for  her. 

She  leaned  out  of  the  window  of  the  four-wheeler 
as  they  drove  away  and  waved  her  hand  to  them  for  the 
last  time.  As  she  sat  down  again — seeing  that  the  girl's 
eyes  were  full  of  tears — Aunt  Deb,  who  had  taken  the 
baby,  hastened  to  return  it.  She  pressed  her  husband's 
foot  with  her  own  as  she  did  so,  with  that  peculiar  nicety 
of  adjustment  which  even  the  dullest  of  mortals  instinc- 
tively recognizes  as  a  warning — a  proceeding  which  was, 
probably,  in  its  earliest  inception,  the  first  step  in  the  es- 
tablishment of  Diplomacy  as  an  institution.  When  Mar- 
garet, with  many  blushes,  ventured  to  look  at  him  he 
soon  put  her  at  her  ease  with : 

"There,  poor  lass,  need'st  not  worrit!     Ah've  no'ut 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  315 

to  do  wi  th'  blamin  o'  ye,  an  I  do-ant  mean  to  let  no  un 
else,  sure-lie !  Ah'll  look  arter  ye,  my  dear,  'tis  not  fur 
no'ut  ah've  had  many  a  mill  in  th'  ould  days  on  Stock- 
bridge  Down !  Th'  nayburs  'ud  best  keep  a  civil  tongue 
in  their  yeds  to  ye — if  they  knowed  o-ut  abowt  ye,  but 
they  do-ant!  Let's  have  a  look  at  th'  baby,  my  dear. 
Aye!  Be'ant  he  a  bonny  un!"  he  added,  turning  to  his 
wife,  and  Margaret  laughed  through  her  tears,  as  he 
placed  a  huge  hand  under  its  little  head,  and  appealed  to 
the  wide  blue  eyes  by  a  series  of  most  extraordinary 
grimaces  and  weird  and  wonderful  sounds. 

She  wondered  what  James  would  think  of  baby  if  he 
could  see  him,  and  sighed.  But  she  had  deecided  that  she 
must  not  think  of  James  any  more  now,  besides — she 
had  his  child.  She  was  going  to  be  happy  again  after  all. 

She  had  no  right  to  be  happy,  of  course.  The  world 
is  only  kept  respectable  by  the  proper  allocation  of  the 
reward  of  happiness  to  those  who  really  deserve  it;  and 
there  is  always  quite  a  sufficient  stock  of  it  on  hand  for 
that  purpose.  It  is  only  adding  sin  to  sin  for  anyone  who 
has  erred  as  deeply  as  Margaret  to  be  happy. 

She  had  escaped,  in  the  first  place,  a  life  of  misery 
through  the  kindness  of  a  pair  of  ignorant  people:  she 
saw  a  brighter  future  for  herself  and  her  child  than 
she  had  ever  dreamed  of  before  in  her  coming  life  with 
Mr.  Gates  and  her  aunt.  Aunt  Deb  had  risked  something 
for  her — how  much,  only  a  woman  of  her  years  and 
placed  in  her  position  can  understand.  Margaret  was 
more  beautiful  now  than  she  had  ever  been  at  Midford 
— sorrow  had  added  an  indefinable  "something"  which 
had  stamped  a  dignity  of  its  own  upon  her.  If  Aunt  Deb 
felt  a  pang,  as  she  saw  her  husband  looking  at  the  girl's 
face — lovely,  with  the  loveliness  of  young  motherhood 
shining  through  its  blushes  and  tear-soft  eyes,  as  a  rain- 
blown  rose  in  June — the  good  woman  knew  as  well  the 
satisfaction  that  lies  in  doing  a  generous  and  merciful 
action.  At  first  she  was  conscious  only  of  her  personal 
disadvantages,  compared  with  her  niece,  and  the  weight 


3i6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

of  her  years  increased  inevitably  by  the  contrast;  but  the 
emotions  to  which  such  feelings  gave  rise  were  but  mo- 
mentary, and  the  action  which  made  her  an  old  woman 
one  minute  made  her  feel  a  young  one  the  next. 

Her  husband's  stolid  soul  was  surprised  at  a  mental 
vision  of  the  girl  in  Midford  village,  that  he  had  wooed 
thirty  years  before,  suddenly  appearing  beside  him  as 
he  stood  in  the  booking  office  at  Balham  station  waiting 
to  take  the  tickets. 

I  am  aware  that  Margaret's  friends,  by  conniving  at 
her  happiness,  and  thus  becoming  accessories,  were  guilty 
of  a  crime  which  must  alienate  from  them  the  sympathies 
of  many  estimable  Christian  people.  There  are,  among 
the  latter,  those  who  possess  the  spirit  of  true  humility 
in  such  a  marked  degree  that  they  most  carefully  avoid 
appearing  in  any  role  which  might  conceivably  challenge 
comparison  with  the  founder  of  their  faith — situations  in 
which  such  vanity  might  disguise  itself  under  a  garb  of 
Forgiveness  and  Mercy  being  obvious  examples. 

Upon  the  writer  acquainting  a  gentleman  of  the  above 
denomination  with  the  history  of  Margaret  and  her 
friends,  he  gave  it  emphatically,  as  his  opinion,  that  the 
conduct  of  all  parties  concerned  was  highly  reprehensi- 
ble— being  a  deliberate  attempt  to  gloss  over  SIN.  He 
added:  that  as  woman  had  been  tempting  man  for  count- 
less generations — it  was  notoriously  so,  he  believed? — 
in  all  probability  she  would  go  on  doing  so  for  all  time, 
and  inferred  that  she  was  so  constituted  by  nature  that 
only  the  fear  of  punishment  prevented  her  from  down- 
right promiscuousness. 

Every  man  who  has  had  a  mother  must  realize  the 
truth  and  justice  of  his  conclusions. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

THRACIAN  SEA  SULKS  WITH  HIS  RIDER 

THRACIAN  SEA  was  turning  sulky,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  He  squealed  as  his  rider  pulled  him  round: 
the  horse  had  ideas  of  his  own  as  to  the  most  suitable 
rides  through  the  Wimbledon  woods,  and  those  ideas  did 
not  at  all  correspond  with  those  of  his  rider  on  this  par- 
ticular May  morning.  Also  Thracian  Sea  did  not  like 
his  rider,  and  signified  the  same  in  the  usual  manner. 

It  was  some  time  now  since  he  had  carried  her — her 
of  the  beautiful  voice  which  sounded  in  his  ears  like  a 
caress — her  of  the  beautiful  hands  which  made  his  bridle 
feel  like  one.  Her  hands  did  not  wrench  his  mouth  about 
as  if  they  were  the  dentist's.  He  scarcely  felt  her  weight; 
he  had  carried  more  to  victory  for  her  in  the  days  when 
she  had  been  wont  to  whisper  to  him  in  the  paddock 
before  the  battles  he  had  fought  for  her,  and  load  him 
with  praise  as  sweet  as  the  sugar  with  which  she  had 
been  wont  to  feed  him  after  the  struggle. 

He  could  carry  fourteen  stone,  of  course;  but  four- 
teen stone  must  behave  itself — at  least,  like  a  gentleman, 
even  if  it  couldn't  be  a  lady.  But  fourteen  stone  handled 
him  like  a  lout :  fourteen  stone  had  hit  him — and  Thracian 
Sea  was  not  going  to  stand  that  at  his  time  of  life.  Years 
ago,  when  he  had  been  young  and  frivolous,  it  might 
have  been  necessary.  He  was  even  prepared  to  admit 
that  it  had  been  necessary  on  one  or  two  occasions.  There 
was  that  little  affair  at  Brighton,  when  the  scent  of  a 
particular  kind  of  hay  for  which  he  had  a  weakness  had 
disturbed  him ;  when  he  had  felt  more  like  enjoying  him- 

317 


318  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

self  on  the  downs,  holiday  making,  than  being  bumped 
and  knocked  about  round  that  absurd  corner  just  after 
the  five  furlong  post,  on  a  course  that  was  notoriously 
a  welsher's.  Good  honest  horses  like  he  was  did  not 
need  downhill  zigzags  to  make  them  race — he  would  have 
raced  straightway  to  the  sun,  and  uphill  all  the  way,  had 
it  been  within  his  power  to  do  so.  At  Newmarket,  on 
the  July  course — his  favorite — there  might  have  been 
grounds  for  complaint  that  day  when  that  wretched  screw, 
to  whom  he  was  giving  some  fifty  pounds,  had  stuck  to 
him  so  persistently  all  along  the  plantation,  and  the  heat, 
not  the  weight,  had  made  him  inclined  to  sulk  a  bit,  just 
below  the  distance.  Jockeys — of  the  baser  sort,  who 
would  have  hit  their  own  mother — had  hit  him  some- 
times in  a  desperate  finish,  not  knowing  any  better,  but 
he  scarcely  noticed  that  sort  of  thing  at  the  time;  besides, 
it  was  all  in  a  day's  work.  But  this  wasn't :  he  wasn't  in 
the  shafts  of  a  cab — yet. 

For  months  and  months  his  beautiful  lady  had  ridden 
him — now  that  the  joys  of  battle  were  over  and  passed; 
and  he  knew  all  her  favorite  rides  and  gallops  by  heart. 
Then  the  man  who  was  her  husband — whose  acquaintance 
with  him  had  meant  a  last  good-bye  to  his  beloved  New- 
market— had  commenced  to  ride  him  again,  and  he  ob- 
jected strongly  to  the  change.  However,  as  fourteen 
stone  was  her  friend,  he  supposed  he  must  put  up  with 
it,  especially  as  his  lady  seemed  to  expect  that  much  from 
him — having  stood  by  and  talked  to  him  while  he  was 
being  saddled  that  morning.  Not  being  a  family  man 
himself,  he  did  not  understand  the  reasons  for  the  ces- 
sation of  their  daily  rambles  together. 

"You've  been  teaching  the  old  devil  some  nice  old 
tricks,  Helen!"  said  his  rider  to  his  wife  when  they  re- 
turned. 

"I  have?    Why,  Jim,  he  will  do  anything  for  me!" 

"Well,  he  has  been  as  sour  as  an  old  crab  all  the 
morning  with  me,  anyhow!" 

It  may  have  been  imagination,  but  Thracian  Sea  cer- 
tainly seemed  to  understand,  then. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  319 

The  spring  grew  into  summer,  and  a  son  and  heir 
was  born  to  James  Burkett,  Esq.  The  summer  passed, 
and  faded  into  autumn;  and  the  child  died.  He  seemed 
a  lusty  infant  enough,  but  his  short  earthly  career  termi- 
nated in  a  fit  of  convulsions,  and  James  Burkett  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall  and  wept. 

His  wife,  as  they  stood  by  the  tiny  grave  one  stormy 
September  day  when  rooks  and  leaves  and  songs  of  death 
were  blown  about  the  skies,  felt  as  if  the  sheet  anchor 
of  her  life  had  parted. 

Since  that  memorable  Goodwood  Cup  day,  when  she 
had  waited  in  an  agony  by  a  smiling  summer  sea  for  news 
of  the  man  who  had  awakened  the  real  love  of  her  life, 
she  had  put  Mervyn  Ingestre  from  her  thoughts  in  so 
far  as  such  had  been  possible.  When  the  wonder  of 
motherhood  rose  shining  like  another  and  greater  sun 
above  her  horizons  the  ghosts  of  her  secret  passion  for 
him  had  faded  into  what  she  told  herself  was  but  a  place 
of  tender  memories. 

She  had  seen  him  seldom  since  his  illness.  When  they 
had  returned  from  the  Isle  of  Wight,  where  they  had 
stayed  for  a  month  after  Goodwood,  he  was  convalescent. 
They  met  one  day  in  Wimbledon  soon  afterward,  and  if 
each  betrayed  a  certain  nervousness  in  the  presence  of 
the  other — they  had  long  been  schooling  their  several 
feelings  against  the  rencontre.  On  the  few  occasions  when 
they  had  spoken  since  then  their  conversation  had  been 
rigorously  confined  to  the  most  conventional  topics. 

One  November  afternoon  subsequent  to  the  death  of 
her  child,  Helen,  on  her  beloved  Thracian  Sea,  overtook 
him  as  he  was  walking  back  from  Richmond  through  the 
woods  to  Wimbledon. 

As  he  expressed  his  sympathy  his  passionate  love  for 
her,  as  woman  and  bereaved  mother,  was  too  strong  to 
be  disguised,  and  her  own  voice  broke  as  she  thanked 
him. 

From  pitying  herself  she  began  to  pity  him  in  deadly 
earnest;  and,  as  her  own  sorrow  lessened,  her  love  for 
the  lonely  man  who  was  so  patient  and  silent  in  his  strug- 


320  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

gle  against  herself  grew  to  unmanageable  and  dangerous 
proportions. 

She  was  dreadfully  sorry  for  James,  of  course — he 
had  been  completely  crushed  at  the  time  by  the  death  of 
their  child;  and  from  that  she  commenced  to  imagine 
it  as  a  retribution  upon  herself  for  her  own  passion  for 
another  man.  A  thousand  morbid  fancies  haunted  her, 
and  taunted  her  with  the  falseness  of  her  position.  And 
still  the  natural  and  inevitable  desire  to  see  and  to  be 
near  the  object  of  that  passion  grew  fiercer  and  stronger 
every  day. 

James,  in  blissful  ignorance  of  his  wife's  condition, 
strove  carefully  and  tenderly  to  tide  over  her  grief,  and 
his  untiring  efforts  to  bring  her  back  to  happiness  served 
only  to  add  to  her  punishment.  She  had  half  expected 
that  his  mother  would  warn  him  against  Mervyn.  As 
time  went  on,  and  no  mention  was  made  of  the  matter, 
either  by  Mrs.  Burkett  or  her  son,  Helen  concluded  that 
that  lady  had  decided  to  maintain  silence,  for  a  while, 
at  any  rate.  Her  mother-in-law,  after  the  evening  when 
Helen's  feelings  had  betrayed  her  when  Mervyn  was 
lying  dangerously  ill,  had  been  studiously  kind  and  con- 
siderate toward  her. 

As  she  sat  reading  and  thinking  by  the  fire,  one  cheer- 
less afternoon  toward  the  end  of  November,  his  mother 
called,  and  the  younger  woman,  who  had  been  expecting 
a  request  for  an  explanation  ever  since  the  telegram  in- 
cident, instinctively  felt  that  her  visitor  had  come  for 
such;  nor  was  she  wrong. 

Gradually  Mrs.  Burkett  worked  round  to  Mervyn 
Ingestre,  and,  after  discussing  one  or  two  matters  re- 
specting his  work  among  the  poor  and  his  defection  from 
the  church,  she  said  suddenly: 

"Helen,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question  about  Mr.  In- 
gestre. Did  you  or  Jim  send  that  telegram  from  Bog- 
nor  last  year  when  he  was  so  ill?" 

"I  did!" 

"Did  Jim  know  that  you  did  so?" 

Her  face  flushed.    "No!" 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  321 

Mrs.  Burkett  was  in  a  quandary.  Without  being  sus- 
picious by  nature,  his  mother's  passionate  love  for  James 
made  her  immoderately  so  where  anything  affecting  her 
son's  interests  was  concerned.  She  was  not  a  brilliant 
woman :  her  moral  sense  was  as  narrow  as  were  most  of 
her  ideals:  her  life  had,  to  a  very  large  extent,  crushed 
her  wider  sympathies,  which  had  eventually  atrophied 
under  the  slow  weight  of  years.  Where  her  son  was  con- 
cerned she  ceased  to  be  Mrs.  Burkett — the  conventional 
wife  of  a  conventional  husband — and  became  invested 
with  the  aegis  of  her  own  passion  and  with  the  poten- 
tialities for  greatness  which  it  inspired.  The  "larger" 
part  of  her  nature  might  be  said  to  live  again  in  him,  or 
rather  in  the  bone  of  her  bone  and  flesh  of  her  imagina- 
tion whom  she  had  conceived,  physically  and  mentally,  to 
be  her  son.  So  exalted  a  being  had  this  largely  mythical 
personage  become  that  his  mother  would  have  been  only 
expressing  her  honest  conviction  if  stating  that  no  living 
woman  was  really  good  enough  to  be  her  boy's  wife. 

She  had  tried  hard  to  like  and  love  the  girl  he  had 
chosen  for  his  mate,  but  from  the  first  she  had  been  nat- 
urally prejudiced  against  Helen — from  what  James  had 
told  her  before  their  marriage.  She  feared  her:  there 
was  an  indifference  to  public  opinion  about  her  which,  to 
a  woman  who  had  lived  as  Mrs.  Burkett  had  lived,  in- 
dicated a  moral  danger  and  presaged  social  disaster.  She 
admired  her  in  a  sense:  had  Helen  not  been  her  son's 
wife  she  would  probably  have  felt  a  great  and  growing 
admiration  for  the  girl  as  she  improved  in  knowledge 
of  her  mind  and  character.  She  would  have  seen  in  her 
the  visible  awakening  of  a  great  and  inevitable  world- 
force  which  must  greatly  and  inevitably  help  mankind 
upward  toward  that  ideal  of  true  moral  and  physical  lib- 
erty essential  for  development.  Not  all  the  opposition 
and  brutality  of  men  "bestial  by  birth" ;  not  all  that  big- 
otry of  the  Mrs.  Grundy  type  which  forces  hypocrisy  as 
hot-beds  do  cucumbers;  not  all  that  wisdom  of  male  ego- 
tism which,  because  the  cock  bird  of  the  domestic  fowl 
crows  in  undisputed  possession  from  his  midden,  insists 


322  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

that  Nature  has  ordained  that  man  and  woman 
shall,  by  their  own  relations,  help  the  development 
of  their  species  only  along  farmyard  parallels:  not  all 
these  things  shall  keep  Woman  out  of  her  own  at 
last. 

If  Helen  Darell  before  her  marriage  had  caused  Mrs. 
Burkett  uneasiness,  the  discovery  her  mother-in-law  made 
after  that  event  had  filled  the  poor  woman  with  a  cease- 
less and  increasing  dread.  Then  James  had  confided  his 
hopes  to  his  mother,  and  the  latter's  doubts  and  fears 
had,  to  a  certain  extent,  subsided.  The  child's  birth  and 
death  had  drawn  the  two  women  closer  together;  but  now 
her  former  fears  had  returned  in  force,  and  she  had,  at 
last,  determined  to  question  her  daughter  and  endeavor  to 

Erevent  anything  like  a  rupture  between  the  girl  and  her 
usband  if  things  had  not  gone  too  far  already.  She  was 
even  ready  to  believe  the  worst,  and  she  had  unconsciously 
half  convinced  herself  that  Helen  was  carrying  on  an  in- 
trigue with  Mervyn  Ingestre.  One  result  of  such  a  frame 
of  mind  had  been  a  discovery  of  the  telegram  which  had, 
at  the  time,  confirmed  her  fears,  and  now  did  so  once 
more. 

But  Helen  Darell  had  developed  in  every  way,  and 
the  Helen  Burkett  who  faced  her  questioner  was  soon  to 
destroy  the  suspicions  if  not  the  fears  of  the  latter — to 
increase  her  respect,  if  to  increase  her  dread. 

Always  a  girl  of  high  courage,  she  was  now  a  fearless 
woman — who  was  learning  by  experience  that  the  worst 
things  in  life  may  be  conquered  by  patience  and  courage 
— and  whose  passion  for  Mervyn  Ingestre  had  aroused 
in  her  soul  the  pride  which  was  too  proud  to  tell  a  lie  to 
save  herself. 

At  his  mother's  last  remark  she  had  risen,  and,  after 
walking  slowly  to  the  door,  which  was  slightly  ajar,  she 
closed  it  methodically  and  resumed  her  seat  opposite  Mrs. 
Burkett. 

"Please  go  on,"  she  said  quietly  to  the  latter — "you 
wish  to?" 

"Yes,  Helen,  I  ..."    Mrs.  Burkett  paused. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  323 

"You  suspect  me  of  loving  Mr.  Ingestre?  Is  that 
not  it?" 

"Yes.  I  ...  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  ask  ...  to 
question  you,  Helen  .  .  .  Jim's  happiness  is  everything 
to  me!" 

"I  am  quite  willing  to  admit  your  right,  mother,  and 
quite  willing  to  answer  you." 

"Y-e-s?" 

"I  do  love  him.    Your  suspicions  were  justified." 

Mrs.  Burkett  did  not  answer,  but  sat  staring  with  dull, 
hopeless  eyes  at  the  fire. 

"Since  you  have  questioned  me,"  Helen  went  on, 
touched  by  the  mute  misery  of  the  other's  face,  "may  I 
ask  if  you  have  hinted  anything  of  this  to  Jim?" 

"No,  Helen,  I  have  not." 

"Do  you  intend  doing  so?" 

The  mother  looked  at  her  helplessly,  pleading  for 
the  son.  "You  have  .  .  .  you  have  borne  him  a  child, 
Helen  .  .  .  You  may  have  others,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
broken  voice.  "I  ...  I  only  want  to  help  you  back  to 
him." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  know.  Thank  you  for  not  reproach- 
ing me.  One  cannot  help  those  things,  really." 

"No  .  .  .  my  dear  ...  I  know."  Mrs.  Burkett's 
pale  face  flushed.  She  had  had  her  own  secret,  and  the 
other  saw  it  flash  for  a  moment  to  the  surface  and  fade 
as  the  glow  faded  out  of  her  cheeks.  "One  has  to  fight, 
that  is  all  ...  all  one's  life  sometimes;  but  .  .  .  but  it 
is  the  only  thing,  dear.  It  is  our  duty  to  ourselves  and 
to  ...  everyone." 

She — his  mother — had  suddenly  found  reproach, 
scorn,  shame,  which  had  appeared  such  potent  things 
with  which  to  lash  an  erring  wife,  out  of  place  with  this 
quiet,  still  girl  with  the  fearless  eyes,  which,  for  all  their 
impenetrable  depths,  seemed  impossible  as  a  lurking  place 
for  lies.  Instinctively  she  read  in  them,  as  they  stared 
into  the  fire,  another  and  a  new  chapter  in  the  character 
of  Helen  Burkett,  and  scorn  of  herself  scourged  her  for 
her  previous  suspicion. 


324  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

"Do  you  think  I  haven't  fought,  and  will  not  fight 
against  it  in  future,  mother?" 

"Oh,  I  know  you  have,  my  dear  .  .  .  forgive  me  for 
doubting  you!" 

"Yes,  mother.  You  need  not  think  I  shall  deceive 
Jim.  If  ...  if  it  gets  too  strong  for  me  I  shall  tell  him 
myself.  I  would  rather!' 

"I  will  pray  always  for  strength  for  you,  child!" 

Helen,  since  Mervyn  had  left  the  church,  had  begun 
to  doubt  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  "The  kingdom  of  God 
is  within  us,  I  think." 

"I  have  found  prayer  a  great  help,  dear,  myself!" 

"Yes?" 

"You  believe  in  God,  surely,  Helen?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  mother!  Every  one  does,  but  .  .  . 
but  I  do  not  think  I  believe  in  the  God  of  the  churches." 

"You  used  to?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  did." 

"Is  it  because  he  left  the  church  that  .  .  .  that  you 
have  changed?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Burkett  sighed.  The  prospect  was  anything  but 
a  hopeful  one  for  James.  She  was  face  to  face  with  an 
enemy  to  her  son's  happiness  which  haunted  her  night 
and  day — a  grim,  specter-like  thing  against  which,  she 
knew,  the  ordinary  weapons  of  conventional  platitude 
would  be  powerless.  Her  own  incapacity  to  avert  what 
she  felt  might  prove  a  tragedy  crushed  her;  and,  for  all 
her  prayers,  and  she  prayed  constantly  to  her  God  for 
her  boy,  in  her  eyes  the  shadow  hanging  over  his  uncon- 
scious head  grew  darker  and  darker  every  day. 

Had  he  known  everything  it  is  extremely  doubtful 
whether  he  would  have  suffered  a  quarter  of  the  misery 
which  tore  his  mother's  heart  as  she  walked  back  to 
"Downlands"  that  November  afternoon. 

He  was  at  that  hour  refreshing  his  mind,  after  the 
strain  of  business,  with  a  quiet  game  of  "snooker"  at  a 
favorite  resort  of  his  not  a  hundred  miles  from  Cheap- 
side. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

THE  TEMPTING  OF  MERVYN  INGESTRE 

JAMES  BURKETT  would  have  ridiculed  the  idea  had 
anyone  hinted  to  him  the  possibility  that  he  was  a  nar- 
row-minded young  man.  He  rather  prided  himself  upon 
the  width  of  his  mind  and  views  upon  men  and  matters 
generally.  He  was  a  sportsman,  and  sportsmen  were 
always  broad-minded  men :  it  was  only  Bible-bangers, 
Teetotallers,  Anti-gamblers,  and  people  like  that  who 
were  narrow-minded.  A  man  with  the  sexual  habits  of  an 
Australian  aborigine,  or  with  a  mind  like  a  cesspool,  a 
woman  with  as  much  native  modesty  in  her  as  in  the  fe- 
male of  the  domestic  cat,  might  generally  reckon  upon 
excuses,  other  than  those  provided  by  their  inherent  na- 
tures, being  found  for  them  by  James  Burkett,  Esq.,  if 
they  appealed  to  his  "broad-mindedness." 

He  had  afforded  his  wife  considerable  amusement 
and  not  a  little  instruction  in  this  phase  of  his  character 
on  more  than  one  occasion. 

Once,  during  their  holiday  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  the 
previous  year  (after  the  memorable  Goodwood  meet- 
ing), in  the  course  of  a  ramble  among  the  woods  and 
hills  of  that  delightful  offshoot  of  Hampshire,  they  had 
come  upon  a  young  man  with  a  green  net,  whom  James 
had  at  once  contemptuously  designated  "a  bug  hunter." 
The  fine  air  of  scorn  with  which  he  had  volunteered  this 
remark  and  followed  it  with  the  information  that  the 
damned  fools  went  about  smearing  treacle  on  the  trees 
at  night  in  the  woods  at  Wimbledon — they  ought  to  be 
locked  up — was  wholly  edifying  to  Helen,  and  she  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  improve  the  occasion  and 


326  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

the  shining  hour.  She,  therefore,  somewhat  to  her  hus- 
band's disgust — the  man  was  shabbily  dressed  and  James 
was  not  entirely  without  his  share  of  snobbishness — had 
interviewed  the  stranger,  and  evinced  an  absurd  interest 
in  his  captures,  which  he,  rather  shyly  and  evidently  im- 
pressed by  his  interrogator's  beauty,  had  shown  to  her. 

Men  generally  interested  Helen  Burkett  as  represen- 
tatives of  different  types,  rather  than  personally  as  indi- 
viduals. The  young  man's  statement,  that  he  loved  the 
sport  of  collecting,  had  provoked  a  smile  from  James — 
the  idea  of  such  a  childish  occupation  being  termed  a 
"sport"  being  too  much  for  that  sportsman's  gravity. 

"And  yet,"  said  Helen  as  they  walked  on,  "I  daresay, 
to  him,  there  is  as  much  sport  in  his  hobby  as  there  is  to 
you,  Jim,  in  shooting  half  tame  pheasants." 

James  laughed  outright,  and  dismissed  the  idea  as 
preposterous. 

"But,  Jim !  He  will  get  more  lasting  and  healthy  and 
genuine  pleasure  out  of  his  holiday,  spent  in  such  a  way, 
than  the  young  men  who  lounge  about  on  the  front,  bleat- 
ing inanities  morning,  noon  and  night,  making  faces  at 
the  girls,  and  killing  time  in  an  exchange  of  wit  second- 
hand from  the  music  halls!" 

James  admitted  that  might  be,  but  two  blacks  didn't 
make  a  white,  and  he  couldn't  understand  men  going  in 
for  such  things. 

A  little  further  on  they  came  upon  another  man  col- 
lecting— a  real  live  man  this  time,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  that.  He  was  of  the  type  "Military-looking" — a 
fine  figure  of  middle-aged  manhood.  He  raised  his  hat 
as  they  overtook  him,  and  remarked  on  the  loveliness  of 
the  spot  and  day. 

James  was  rather  doubtful.  His  clothes  and  general 
appearance  were  anything  but  fashionable,  but  he  stopped 
and  commenced  talking  with  the  other  as  the  latter  boxed 
an  insect  he  had  just  captured.  He  was  evidently  a  gen- 
tleman; and  they  wandered  on  together,  chatting  as  peo- 
ple do  who  meet  casually  in  lonely  places. 

From  English  Lepidoptera  his  conversation  drifted 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  327 

by  way  of  Indian  ditto  to  Indian  matters  generally;  and 
Helen  was  very  interested  in  India. 

He  was  an  old  soldier,  with  many  years'  service  in 
that  country,  and  his  talk  proved  such  a  mine  of  infor- 
mation to  her  that  James  began  to  feel  frightfully  igno- 
rant, and  not  a  little  jealous  at  his  wife's  evident  pleasure 
in  the  stranger's  society. 

"My  husband  was  saying,  just  before  we  met  you, 
that  he  couldn't  understand  men  going  in  for  what  he 
called  bug  hunting!"  she  said  suddenly  with  a  laugh. 

The  soldier  looked  at  the  slightly  discomfited  James, 
and  smiled.  "It  is  a  very  fascinating  hobby — Entomol- 
ogy. It  adds  a  zest  to  life  that  somehow  never  fades 
with  years  as  most  pleasures  do.  I've  collected  since  I 
was  at  school.  It's  wonderful  how  it  enlarges  one's  mind 
and  enables  one  to  properly  appreciate  that  wonderful 
thing  called  life — apart  from  the  sport  of  the  thing." 

James  thought  perhaps  it  did.  Personally,  he  pre- 
ferred billiards,  or  a  good  game  of  snooker-pool,  in  his 
lighter  hours. 

The  other  laughed,  and  jocularly  reminded  him  of 
the  precept  respecting  a  good  billiard  player  and  a  mis- 
spent youth,  as  they  parted  company. 

The  trivial  incidents  recorded  here  were  fated  to  have 
a  lasting  influence  on  the  lives  of  James  Burkett  and  his 
wife.  She  had,  on  more  than  one  occasion  subsequently, 
used  the  stranger's  remarks  about  "enlarging  the  mind" 
and  "billiards"  as  a  spur  to  induce  her  husband  to  cul- 
tivate his  own  intelligence  in  other  places  than  billiard- 
rooms — to  find  an  additional  hobby  as  an  antidote  to 
snooker  and  such  amusements,  which,  she  feared,  but 
sharpened  his  wits  at  the  expense  of  what  intellect  he 
possessed.  She  was  wise  enough  in  worldly  lore  to  know 
that  the  hobby  horse  was  often  a  more  valued  possession 
to  the  average  man  than  his  wife,  and  that,  although 
the  animal  was  frequently  ridden  in  an  oft  quoted  and 
barbarous  fashion,  in  very  many  instances  it  carried  man 
away  from  moral  and  physical  destruction. 

Billiards,   as  the  chief  recreation  of  his  spare  mo- 


328  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

ments,  however,  did  not  appeal  to  Helen  Burkett  as  a 
wise  or  a  profitable  one  for  her  husband.  Her  attempts, 
the  previous  winter,  to  arouse  in  him  a  desire  for  the 
knowledge  of  cultured  people  were,  to  a  very  great  ex- 
tent, frustrated  by  the  billiard  habit.  At  last  it  had  led 
to  their  first  quarrel — during  which,  as  is  generally  the 
case,  nasty  things  were  said  on  both  sides;  James  closing 
the  subject  by  an  adjournment  to  the  billiard-room,  and 
informing  his  wife  that  it  would  take  more  than  a  bally 
bug  hunter  to  teach  him  anything.  The  Isle  of  Wight 
episode  had  always  been  a  rather  sore  one  in  his  heart 
with  James,  and  she  had  just  alluded  to  it  again.  He 
had  been  rather  rude  to  her,  and  she  was,  perhaps,  feel- 
ing a  little  hurt.  Anyhow,  the  sarcasm  in  her  reply,  that 
she  was  afraid  it  would,  was  too  thinly  veiled  to  escape 
even  her  husband,  and  he  went  off  in  high  dudgeon.  The 
subject  was  dropped  by  both  of  them  for  a  time;  but  it 
had  made  one  of  those  little  breaches  which  are  dangerous 
to  future  happiness  between  young  married  people — one 
of  those  little  rifts,  insignificant  in  themselves,  but  which 
are  the  first  signs  of  landslip.  The  next  time  she  re- 
turned to  the  attack  he  became  so  downright  mulish  (from 
her  point  of  view)  that  she  began  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of 
her  efforts,  and,  finally,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  they 
must  gang  their  ain  gait  for  the  future. 

In  their  first  child  they  had  forgotten  their  differences, 
and  everything  but  that  they  were  husband  and  wife. 
After  the  little  one  died,  and  when  time  was  beginning 
to  heal  the  wound  of  her  grief,  James  Burkett,  had  he 
been  a  wiser  man,  would  have  seized  the  opportunity  to 
show  himself  eager  for  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  ideals  and  interests  of  his  wife.  He  was,  however, 
too  infected  with  that  stupidity  of  egotism,  which,  by 
some  curious  mental  twist  of  its  own,  confuses  proper 
pride  with  the  vanity  which  is  begotten  by  ignorance  upon 
obstinacy.  Also — there  were  two  or  three  handicaps  on 
in  the  city  just  then.  His  wife  had  not  forgotten  her  fre- 
quent repulses,  and  was,  by  now,  skeptical  as  to  the  utility 
of  her  former  endeavors,  and  naturally  chary  of  awaken- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  329 

ing  further  unpleasantness  by  again  introducing  the  sub- 
ject. 

The  death  of  her  child  had  affected  her  more  deeply 
than  she  herself  recognized  at  this  time.  It  had  pro- 
duced an  amount  of  mental  prostration  which,  combined 
with  her  non-success  with  her  husband,  was  slowly  but 
surely  allowing  her  moral  sense  to  be  more  and  more 
dominated  and  influenced  by  her  other  senses.  Mervyn 
Ingestre  had  now  his  permanent  place  in  her  thoughts, 
and  she  made  no  attempt  either  to  disturb  his  position 
there  or  to  disguise  from  herself  that  he  was  becoming 
more  and  more  the  supreme  need  in  her  future  existence. 

About  a  month  after  her  confession  to  her  mother-in- 
law  Thracian  Sea  bruised  his  frog  on  a  stone,  and  went 
dead  lame  for  a  few  days  as  a  result  of  that  mishap.  Her 
favorite  incapacitated,  she  decided,  one  afternoon,  on  a 
walk  across  the  common  and  through  the  woods  to  Bev- 
erley  Brook. 

It  was  very  mild  and  clear — a  winter's  afternoon  with 
an  almost  summer  temperature,  though  without  any  sun, 
and  when  distant  objects  appear  much  closer  than  they 
really  are.  She  reached  the  edge  of  the  plateau,  where  a 
seat  at  the  corner  of  a  birch  plantation  overlooks  a  nar- 
row wooded  valley  immediately  below,  that  opens  out  into 
the  wider  one,  on  whose  further  side  are  Coombe  Wood 
and  Hill  in  the  distance.  The  soft  feel  of  the  southwest 
wind  in  her  face,  its  sigh  through  the  birches'  myriad 
hair;  the  utter  loneliness  of  the  place;  awakened  the  poe- 
try latent  in  her  soul,  and  increased  her  longing  to  be  with 
the  poet  who  was  now,  she  knew,  secretly  enshrined 
therein  for  good  or  ill.  This  longing  was  becoming  a 
passionate  yearning,  was  becoming  more  and  more  intense 
every  day.  She  wondered  where  he  was,  what  he  was 
doing.  Then  the  fancy  took  her :  she  would  try  and  write 
poetry,  though  she  had  never — even  in  her  schoolgirl  days 
— previously  attempted  such  a  thing.  But  to-day  her 
whole  nature  seemed  to  hanker  for  reconcilement;  here, 
in  a  world  of  quiet  tones,  yet  where  every  tree,  every 
shadow,  in  the  woods  before  her  seemed  to  express,  with 


330  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

a  felicity  of  suggestion,  its  own  mystic  and  sympathetic 
accordance  with  nature's  prevailing  mood.  In  the  clear 
sweet  air  the  winter  green  of  grassy  places  had  in  it  a 
tender  light :  there  were  luminous  and  lovely  shadows  of 
gray-blue  above  it  under  the  winter  trees. 

She  searched  her  pocket  and  found  a  piece  of  paper 
and  a  pencil.  She  sat  listening  and  staring  in  front  of 
her  for  a  moment  or  two:  the  inspiration  of  the  idea 
came,  and  she  had  soon  turned  it  into  rhyme — half  sur- 
prised at  the  facility  with  which  the  words  arranged 
themselves : 


A  VOICE  IN  THE  SOUTHWEST  WIND 

Softly  it  comes,  when  the  West,  her  sister, 

The  South,  embraces,  and  as  the  twain 
Kiss,  they  sigh  and  their  secrets  whisper 

Each  to  each  other.    In  joy  or  pain 
They  sob,  or,  laughing,  they  pause  and  listen 

To  a  low,  sweet  song,  with  a  wild  refrain. 
They  weep,  and  their  tears  on  the  warm  earth  glisten ; 

And  the  sound  of  their  tears  is  the  Voice  of  Rain. 

She  read  and  re-read  the  lines,  smiling  slightly  to 
herself.  She  wondered  what  her  poet  lover  would  think 
of  her  first  attempt.  She  would  like  to  show  it  to  him, 
he  ... 

She  crushed  the  paper  into  her  gloved  palm,  and  her 
face  glowed. 

He  was  coming  toward  her  by  the  narrow  path  lead- 
ing out  of  the  wood  below,  and  had  already  seen  her,  no 
doubt. 

They  had  not  met  since  the  day  when  Mrs.  Burkett 
had  questioned  her  about  him.  He  was  still  some  little 
distance  off :  the  path  ran  right  by  the  seat  on  which  she 
was  sitting.  By  the  time  he  came  up  to  her  they  had  both 
controlled  somewhat  the  emotions  which  this  sudden  en- 
counter had  awakened. 

They  discussed  one  or  two  local  matters  of  topical  in- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  331 

terest.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  deliriously  ten- 
der toward  him.  She  was  taken  off  her  guard;  and  a 
great  loneliness  of  spirit  made  her  suddenly  sick  for 
him. 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make !"  she  said  at  last.  "I 
have  been  trying  to  write  poetry !  Just  as  you  came  up." 

"Indeed?"  He  hoped  she  would  ask  him  for  his 
opinion  on  it,  and  she  did. 

He  praised  the  lines  warmly;  said,  undoubtedly  they 
were  poetry — though  "sister"  and  "whisper"  were 
scarcely  proper  rhymes. 

His  praise  was  very  sweet  to  her:  the  technical  error, 
which  she  had  not  noticed  herself,  was  forgotten  in  a 
sudden  rush  of  feeling  for  him  induced  by  his  proximity 
and  praise. 

He  had  some  of  his  own  compositions  in  his  pocket — 
would  she  care  to  see  them? 

She  would  like  to — very  much. 

He  produced  a  batch  of  papers  and  envelopes,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  handing  some  of  them  to  her  for  in- 
spection, when  he  stopped,  and,  flushing,  extracted  one 
of  them  from  among  the  others  and  returned  it  to  his 
pocket. 

She  knew  it  must  be  about  herself,  and,  woman-like, 
she  found  that  it  possessed  more  interest  for  her  than 
did  all  the  others,  which  were  on  impersonal  subjects. 
She  read  them  through — afterward  praising  them  in  a 
way  which  made  the  young  man's  mind  and  manner  more 
chaotic  every  moment.  She  felt  she  must  see  the  other 
one. 

"Mayn't  I  see  the  ...  the  other?"  She  flushed  as 
she  made  the  request,  and  then  looked  away  from  him. 

His  confusion  returned  tenfold;  and  they  both  heard 
the  ice  breaking.  Nevertheless,  as  is  the  way  of  lovers, 
they  rushed  recklessly  on. 

He  was  the  first  to  lose  his  head.  He  had  seated 
himself  by  her  side  as  she  read  the  poems.  Now  he 
rose  suddenly.  His  wild  face  and  eyes,  and  his  husky 
half-fcightened  voice,  as  he  spoke,  made  her  glad  with  a 


332  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

kind  of  terribly  supreme  and  previously  unknown  emo- 
tion. 

"I  cannot  ...  I  must  not  show  it  to  you  !  It  is  about 
yourself  ...  it  was  very  wrong  of  me  to  write  it  ... 
but  I  couldn't  help  it  ...  I  loved  you  .  .  .  directly  I 
saw  you  that  day!" 

He  stood  before  her,  trembling,  silent.  The  words 
had  come  in  a  torrent,  and  ceased  as  quickly. 

Her  curiosity  respecting  the  poem  helped  her  to  stave 
off  for  a  little  longer  the  madness  which  was  creeping 
over  her.  The  poem?  She  must  see  the  poem,  at  all 
costs !  Even  if  ... 

Therefore:  "Perhaps  it  ...  it  would  make  you 
easier  if  you  ...  if  I  were  to  read  it?"  Her  voice,  in 
spite  of  herself,  had  grown  dangerously  soft  and  plead- 
ing; and  he  thrust  the  paper  out  to  her  and  turned  blindly 
away — waiting,  reckless,  fearful.  It  was  the  poem  he 
had  written  after  her  wedding. 

"Mervyn!" 

He  swung  round  and  moved  toward  her,  and  all  the 
man  in  him  leapt  at  his  name  spoken  so  from  her  lips. 
Then  he  stopped — appalled  at  what  he  had  done. 

Her  glorious  eyes  and  face  were  abject  almost  in 
their  utter  surrender.  Her  own  love  for  him  had  passed 
beyond  disguise  or  control. 

She  rose  slowly,  and  gave  him  back  the  lines  with  the 
air  of  a  woman  who  would  have  given  him  everything. 

"You  have  forgiven  me?" 

"I  love  you,"  she  answered.  "I  think  I  always  .  .  . 
have  loved  you,  Mervyn.  I  ...  I  would  forgive  you 
more  than  that  .  .  .  anything!" 

The  dusk  wherein  the  winds  went  whispering  had 
put  away  from  them  the  little  world  of  streets,  a  mile 
away.  Both  had  forgotten  Wimbledon  and  suburban 
things, — the  elaborate  rituals  of  Commonplace,  the  gro- 
tesque worships  of  Propriety  and  Good  Taste  in  a  land 
that  sees  nothing  indecent  in  promising,  in  the  Name  of 
God,  the  poor  and  ignorant  masses,  that  minister  to  its 
own  pampered  flesh,  chaste  eternities  of  happier  life.  The 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  333 

need  to  live  had  come  upon  these  two — to  live,  not  merely 
to  exist.  Her  love  for  this  man  had  completely  taken 
possession  of  her  faculties  for  the  while — she  had  forgot- 
ten everything  but  the  desire  of  body  and  soul  which 
clamored  throughout  her  whole  being.  To  be  with  him 
always,  to  minister  to  him,  to  bear  him  children,  to  lie  be- 
side him  through  the  nights  of  earthly  sleep,  to  sleep  be- 
side him  at  the  last  through  the  endless  sleep  of  death; — 
before  these  things  everything  else  was  as  naught. 
Honor,  shame, — they  had  become  things  meaningless  and 
empty  words  before  the  eternal  wonder  that  is  Love.  She 
would  have  followed  him  to  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

They  had  walked,  almost  in  silence,  to  Caesar's  Well. 
The  common  at  this  hour  was  completely  deserted:  the 
shades  of  the  December  night  were  rapidly  closing  in 
around  them.  On  one  of  the  seats  within  the  ring  of 
dwarf  pines  which  surround  the  well  they  sat  down  with- 
out comment. 

It  was  already  nearly  dark.  Mervyn  Ingestre  awoke 
to  a  sense  of  their  position,  and  rose  to  go.  Obediently, 
unquestioning,  she  followed  suit.  As  yet  they  had  spoken 
but  little  to  each  other,  but  the  dusky  hands  of  the  night 
were  loosening  the  remaining  bonds  which  still  held  back 
the  woman  from  the  man  she  loved.  As  they  reached 
the  shade  of  the  trees  she  stopped. 

"Mervyn!"  Her  voice  was  imperative  with  passion. 
"Kiss  me!" 

They  were  both  nearly  of  the  same  height.  With  one 
hand  she  held  his  arm,  and,  with  the  other  on  his  shoul- 
der, she  had  half  turned  him  to  her.  Her  face  glowed. 
Her  eyes  were  narrowed  strangely.  A  sudden  lust  for 
maternity  was  added  to  her  need  of  him. 

Then  Mervyn  Ingestre  made  his  supreme  effort  to 
save  the  woman  he  loved.  At  her  touch  he,  too,  had 
forgotten  everything  but  his  love — for  a  moment.  He 
had  made  one  involuntary  movement  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  but  had  checked  himself.  He  remained  motionless 
and  did  not  answer. 

For  a  fraction  of  a  second  she  doubted  him — he  did 


334  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

not — could  not — love  her  as  she  loved  him.  Her  love 
was  stronger  than  his.  Then,  in  his  white  set  face  and 
stricken  eyes,  she  read  the  fierceness  of  the  struggle  that 
this  man's  strong,  austere  chastity  of  soul  was  making 
against  the  call  of  the  flesh,  and  she  felt  not  so  much  a 
sense  of  shame  as  a  sense  of  awe.  Her  hands  dropped, 
and  her  head.  Helen  Burkett  never  forgot  the  strange, 
solemn  song  of  the  southwest  wind  in  the  pines  as  it  swept 
over  her  bowed  head  while  she  waited  the  word  and 
pleasure  of  the  man  whose  will  had  become  law  to  her. 
The  old,  old  desire  of  the  Woman  to  tempt  the  Man  was 
whispering  to  her.  Instinctively  she  knew  that  if  she 
made  her  demand  a  second  time,  in  this,  his  hour  of 
weakness,  his  strength  must  fail  him.  The  wish  to  see 
him  as  she  saw  herself  flicKered  up  in  her,  and  she  trem- 
bled with  the  fury  of  her  own  longing  and  temptation. 
Then  something  of  his  example  infected  her,  and  she 
raised  her  head. 

"Does  your  husband  love  you,  Helen?"  he  asked 
huskily. 

"As  much  as  he  loves  anything,  I  suppose !"  she  an- 
swered in  a  voice  of  revolt.  She  did  not  want  James 
introduced  just  now — he  jarred.  Then  she  remembered 
what  he  had  been  to  her  at  one  time.  Therefore — in  ex- 
cuse of  herself:  "Nearly  as  much  as  he  loves  billiards — 
or  betting!"  she  added  with  a  hard  little  laugh  and  a 
gesture  of  hopelessness. 

Mervyn  Ingestre's  experience  of  women  was  limited, 
but  her  attitude  was  too  eloquent  for  him  to  misunder- 
stand. The  elemental  man  in  him  rioted  drunkenly — 
this  glorious  woman,  the  Helen  of  his  dreams,  was  his 
for  the  taking.  His  own  love  flung  itself  into  the  scale 
and  their  two  fates  hung  doubtfully  in  the  balance.  Then 
the  inherent  spirituality  of  the  man  conquered;  and  the 
woman  walked  on  obediently  by  his  side,  holding  his 
hand  with  fierce  tenderness — her  soul  a  place  in  which 
baffled  passion,  hate,  admiration,  despair,  and  exaltation 
fought  among  themselves  until  weariness  dulled  her 
senses  and  coherent  thought  became  possible. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  335 

"I  want  to  tell  Jim  ...  I  feel  I  must  ...  do  you 
mind,  Mervyn?" 

The  suddenness  of  her  remark  and  question  startled 
him.  He  was  silent  a  moment,  then:  "Certainly,  Helen 
— it  is  the  only  thing." 

"We  can  be  ...  friends?"  she  half  whispered — a 
great  fear  seizing  her.  She  had  already  forgiven  him 
for  his  rejection  of  her. 

"Oh,  my  dear !     My  dear !     Help  me !" 

Reaction  had  set  in,  and  with  it  weakness.  He  was 
shaken  terribly.  At  his  words  there  came  thankfulness 
to  her,  for  she  knew  by  them  that  she  had  never  been, 
in  his  eyes,  as  a  woman  who  had  forgotten  shame. 

She  had  finished;  and  James  Burkett,  with  a  dull 
flush  mantling  his  forehead,  turned  from  the  window, 
where  he  had  been  staring  out  into  the  darkness  of  the 
garden,  as  his  wife  made  her  confession  in  quiet  passion- 
less tones,  and  came  close  to  her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Helen?"  he  demanded 
fiercely.  "Leave  me?" 

"I  am  your  wife,  Jim  ...  I  will  do  as  you  wish  me." 

"Please  yourself!"  He  was  too  angry  to  feel  any- 
thing but  rage.  "Would  you  rather  be  my  wife  or  his — 
mistress?"  Wounded  vanity  stabbed  him,  and  he  seized 
her  arm  roughly  and  glared  into  her  eyes. 

She  shrugged  her  brooding  shoulders.  "I  am  your 
wife  .  .  .  because " 

"Because  what?" 

"Because  he  ...  would  have  me  remain  so." 

"Oh,  yes!  I  daresay!  I'm  not  having  any  of  that 
game — I'm  not  quite  a  fool !"  he  burst  out. 

"Jim!  Please  do  not  take  that  tone  with  me!  You 
insult  me!" 

"Well,  of  all  the  cool  cheek!  I  think  you  take  the 
cake,  Helen!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say!  I  wonder  you  have  the  brazen  assur- 
ance to  tell  me !  You  asked  him  to  kiss  you !  I  wonder 


'336  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

your  pride  would  allow  you  to  tell  me  such  a  thing  to  my 
face!" 

"My  pride  ?  My  pride  would  not  allow  me  to  deceive 
you,  Jim!" 

He  let  go  her  arm.  "Do  you  ask  me  to  believe  that 
he  refused?"  he  snapped,  with  fine  sarcasm. 

A  dangerous  light  leapt  in  her  dark  eyes.  "I  ask 
you  to  believe  nothing,  Jim,  that  you  do  not  want  to. 
Only  .  .  ." 

"Only  what?" 

"It  is  your  own  fault  if  you  wrong  him  and  me  by 
believing  that  I  would  tell  you  a  deliberate  lie!" — she 
could  not  disguise  the  scorn  in  her  voice,  and,  somehow, 
it  hurt  him. 

"But  the  shame! — the  wrong  you  have  done  mel" 

"Jim,  have  you  never  wronged  a  woman?" 

At  that  he  flinched,  and  the  flush  in  his  face  deep- 
ened. He  resorted  to  bluster  again.  "Damn  him  and 
his  blasted  poetry!"  He  strode  savagely  back  to  the  win- 
dow. 

She  came  aftei  him.  "He,  and  his  poetry  you  cursed 
just  then  have  saved  me  from  myself,  and  you — from 
having  an  adulterous  wife,  Jim.  You  may  not  understand 
that,  but  it  is  so." 

There  were  pitiful  things  in  the  strong  man's  face 
as  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  stared  with  dull  eyes  at  his 
wife.  His  strength  was  helpless  against  this  intangible 
power  of  love  which  eluded  all  his  efforts  to  grapple 
with  it. 

"You  asked  me  if  I  would  sooner  be  your  wife  or 
his  mistress.  Were  I  to  consider  merely  myself  in  the 
matter  I  would  sooner  be  his  ...  woman  than  any  other 
man's  wife !  That  is  how  I  love  him !" 

James  did  not  understand  the  pride  which  is  in  lov- 
ing. Such  a  statement  from  his  proud  beautiful  wife — 
somehow  she  had  never  looked  so  proudly  beautiful  as 
she  did  just  now — seemed  impossible,  and  he  stared  at 
her  incredulously. 

"I  see  you  doubt  me !     Do  you  suppose  that  I — that 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  337 

any  woman  would  tell  you  that  if  it  were  not  true?"  She 
laughed  bitterly. 

He  began  to  have  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  was  not 
showing  to  advantage.  The  irony  of  the  thought  struck 
him,  but  strangely  for  him,  cooled  his  temper.  She  was 
coming  out  of  it  all  better  than  he  was — the  impression 
grew  uncomfortably;  and  it  vaguely  dawned  upon  him 
that  there  was  a  greatness  in  his  wife's  character  which 
was  bigger  than  anything  in  his  own. 

"Jim  ...  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  let  me  see  him 
.  .  .  sometimes?"  Her  voice  trembled  with  passionate 
entreaty. 

"And  if  I  refuse?" 

"He  ...  he  will  not  let  me  disobey  you." 

"Is  that  the  truth?" 

She  flashed  a  look  at  him  and  did  not  deign  to  reply. 

"And  what  if  I  agree  to  that  arrangement?" 

"I  swear  to  you,  Jim,  that  I  will  never  speak  of  love 
to  him,  and  I  will  tell  him  of  my  oath  to  you !  He  will 
not  speak  of  love  to  me — that  too  I  will  swear  for  him. 
If  it  ...  gets  too  strong  for  me  I  ...  I  will  tell  you 
first,  and  ask  you  to  release  me  from  my  promise.  I 
swear  to  you,  Jim,  by  ...  by  our,  your  dead  child!" 
Her  self-control  went  all  at  once — the  strain  had  been  too 
much.  She  broke  down,  and,  slipping  into  a  chair,  burst 
into  a  passion  of  terrible  tearless  sobs. 

Then  the  better  part  of  James  Burkett  came  to  the 
surface. 

"I  will  give  my  consent,  Helen,  to  what  you  ask. 
Willingly  I  give  it!"  He  leaned  over  her  bowed  head 
and  stroked  her  hair.  His  wife  should  see  that  he  could 
be  generous!  "And,  Helen  .  .  .  I  will  win  you  back! 
or  ...  You  shall  not  be  ...  a  wife  to  me  until  I  do!" 

She  raised  her  head,  and  her  eyes  thanked  him,  though 
she  could  not  speak  for  her  sobs.  Then  she  grew  sud- 
denly quiet. 

"I  am  your  wife,  Jim,  and  will  be  so  till  .  .  .  till 
the  end,  even  if  I  am  not  fit  to  be!"  She  drew  his  face 
down  to  hers  and  kissed  him. 


338  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Two  years  ago  another  woman  had  used  the  same 
words  to  him,  and  the  coincidence  struck  him  painfully  at 
his  wife's  caress.  Two  years  ago  another  woman  had 
kissed  him  in  just  such  a  way.  A  superstitious  dread — a 
premonition  that  there  was  a  kind  of  retributive  justice, 
slowly  but  surely  working  out  its  ends — fell  heavily  upon 
him. 

The  shock  to  his  own  vanity  and  self-esteem  had 
shattered  his  confidence  in  himself  in  a  way  that  had 
never  happened  before. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

HELEN  BURKETT  DECIDES  TO  HUNT  AN  OLD  TRAIL 

IT  was  a  trying  time  for  Burkett  and  his  wife.  It 
may  be  that  circumstance  has  in  it  the  power  to  make 
cads  of  most  men.  Few  folk  would  have  blamed  this 
man  if  he  had  forgotten  that  he  had  at  least  been  taught, 
by  such  example  as  his  college  and  university  career 
could  provide  for  him,  the  obligations  of  a  gentleman. 

After  her  confession  that  had  ended  on  a  note  of 
heart-break  and  weakness,  she  had  become  possessed  by 
a  feeling  of  futility  that  to  some  extent  made  her  posi- 
tion with  her  husband  easier  to  bear  while  it  made  things 
harder  for  her  to  contemplate.  At  first  all  the  more 
primitive  part  of  her  nature  was  in  revolt — but  it  was 
revolt  against  two  men,  and  the  resultant  faction  had  no 
prospect  for  her  of  aught  save  civil  war  and  the  long 
weariness  of  aimless  strife.  Her  lover  had  rejected  her: 
she  could  not  forget  the  hateful  ignominy  that  filled  her 
blood  at  the  one  thought  above  all  others  that  makes 
the  last  woman  born  as  non-moral  as  was  the  first,  and 
in  a  flash. 

Repugnance  toward  her  husband  was  followed  by 
hopelessness;  and  an  awkward  enough  acquiescence  in 
his  proximity  at  times,  but  one  made  as  easy  for  her  by 
the  man  she  had  married  and  come  near  to  hate  as  was 
within  his  power.  All  the  best  in  Burkett  came  out,  and 
she  hated  herself  sharply  when  he  slept  in  his  chair  one 
night  before  a  cold  grate,  rather  than  cause  her  more 
uneasiness  than  she  knew  he  had  read  in  her  eyes  during 
the  evening.  In  his  best  way  he  tried  to  spare  her  every 
possible  annoyance  at  his  hands,  for  which  she  thanked 

339 


340  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

him  in  a  heart  that  hated  him  for  being  her  husband. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  fear  haunted  her,  for  days 
and  nights  at  a  stretch, — fear  of  him,  the  man  she  had 
married.  Gradually  a  sense  of  the  futility  of  it  all  made 
her  almost  callous;  until  Christmas,  with  its  festive  spirit, 
mocked  both  of  them  from  the  near  future. 

As  they  sat  at  breakfast,  on  Christmas  Eve,  her 
husband's  strained  face  appeared  to  her  through  the 
thickness  of  The  Times.  She  saw  it  plainly,  for  all  the 
paper  screened  it  from  her  eyes.  There  came  upon  her 
a  swift  desire  to  make  an  end,  to  escape.  The  air  of  the 
room  grew  tense  with  her  emotion.  James  put  the  paper 
down  on  the  table.  She  flushed  at  the  man's  obvious 
efforts  with  himself.  They  caught  themselves  staring  at 
each  other.  She  could  face  him  and  the  trouble  in  his 
eyes:  she  could  not  face  her  own  thoughts  that  came 
while  he  was  in  the  same  room.  She  rose,  red  in  the 
face,  and  went  quickly  upstairs.  She  did  not  return  until 
she  had  heard  the  front  door  shut — very  quietly,  it 
seemed  to  her — as  he  went  off  to  business. 

The  servants  had  by  now,  no  doubt,  begun  to  notice 
that  things  were  strained  between  her  and  their  master. 
That  day  a  baffled  woman  lay  on  the  couch  before  the 
fire,  piecing  together  the  vulgar  ends  of  it  all;  while,  at 
intervals,  a  parlor-maid — suddenly  become  smug-faced 
to  her  overstrung  mistress — brought  to  her  tidings  of 
happiness  and  goodwill  and  peace  toward  men,  in  sundry 
shapes  of  many  Christmas  cards. 

In  the  afternoon  his  mother  called.  Her  face  took 
on  tragedy  as  soon  as  the  girl  who  showed  her 
into  the  room  had  shut  the  door  behind  her.  James 
had  not  told  her  of  his  wife's  confession;  but  she  knew 
instinctively  that  a  crisis  was  in  the  air  that  boded  disaster 
for  her  boy.  She  was  not  without  tact,  but  she  was  not 
aware  that  Christmas,  and  all  that  appertained  to  the 
spirit  thereof,  had  become  hateful  things  to  the  woman 
in  bondage;  who  answered  her  seasonable  greeting  with 
a  queer  voice  and  strange  eyes  and  flushed  face  that 
somehow  between  them  motioned  her  to  a  chair  before 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  341 

the  fire.  Helen  felt  that  control  over  herself  was  leav- 
ing her  and  his  mother  was  the  last  woman  in  the  world 
she  wished  to  be  with  just  then. 

"Hasn't  Tim  got  back  yet,  Helen?" 

"No." 

"His  father  was  home  soon  after  two.  They  closed 
early." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes."  Mrs.  Burkett  would  have  given  ten  years  of 
her  life  to  have  been  able  to  have  acted  Santa  Claus  to 
her  son's  household  just  then.  Changing  the  subject 
from  Burkett  and  Bowker,  she  hinted  at  such  possibilities 
by  the  time  a  few  more  Christmases  should  come  round. 

Her  daughter-in-law  did  not  respond,  but  sat  staring 
hard  at  the  fire. 

His  mother  feared  the  worst  had  happened,  and  a 
chill  fog  began  in  her  throat.  Speech  failed  her,  and 
tears  brightened  in  her  tired  eyes. 

Helen  did  not  see  them,  but  sat  staring  on;  she  could 
hardly  bring  herself  to  look  at  his  mother.  And  this  sort 
of  "life"  she  had  got  to  accustom  herself  to  for  years 
and  years  and  years.  At  that  moment  she  could  have 
wished  the  man  who  had  aroused  a  madness  of  love  in 
her  had  been  a  man  arrogant,  brutal  even,  in  his  desires, 
who  would  have  taken  her  away  as  his  own  legitimate 
spoil  of  sex-conquest.  The  artist,  too  long  latent  in  her, 
and  now  struggling  into  first  expression,  craved  for  vital 
kinship  with  one  for  whom  the  world  was  a  place  through 
which  men  still  quested  for  the  high  peaks  of  passion 
that  come  and  go  through  sunsets  and  the  starry  veils  of 
night.  She  glanced  at  her  visitor,  and  knew  that  she  could 
feel:  but  between  the  lives  of  the  two  stretched  that  dif- 
ference of  things,  concerning  which,  one  of  the  two 
women  felt  life  was  too  short  to  attempt  to  cross,  and 
the  other  knew  she  could  not  ever  hope  to  pass.  Helen 
saw  the  narrow  morality  of  the  world  about  her  as  a 
wide  waste  place  that  held  her  from  the  promised  land. 
Too  clever  not  to  know  that  its  observance  was  largely 
due  to  dearth  of  imagination,  and  to  the  cold  unbeautiful 


342  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

lusts  that  bind  men's  souls  to  the  huckster's  mart,  she  was 
too  estranged  by  perturbation  of  spirit  to  appreciate  the 
homelier  virtues  of  loving  kindness,  domestic  sacrifice, 
and  purity  of  heart,  that  persisted  in  spite  of  its  con- 
ventions and  comfortable  creeds.  His  mother's  troubled 
face,  when  she  had  glanced  at  it,  irritated  more  than  it 
hurt  her. 

"Helen,  I  see  you  wish  to  be  alone,  dear.  I  will 
go."  She  felt  afraid  lest  she  should  aggravate  the  girl. 
She  could  feel  for  her,  to  a  certain  degree,  in  her 
struggle. 

Helen  rose.  "Yes,  mother.  Don't  think  me  rude.  I 
fancy  you  understand." 

Mrs.  Burkett  sighed;  and  went  quietly  away  as  Helen 
let  her  out.  She  could  not  turn  at  the  gate.  She  was 
crying  bitterly. 

Soon  after  she  was  gone  Helen  put  on  her  hat  and 
winter  cloak,  and  walked  down  into  the  town.  She  did 
not  meet  her  husband,  and  supposed  he  was  spending  the 
afternoon  with  some  city  cronies. 

She  turned  at  the  station  bridge,  to  see  Mervyn  In- 
gestre  hurrying  toward  her,  a  little  ragged  girl  running 
by  his  side,  with  her  frightened  dirty- white  face  stained 
with  many  tears. 

He  was  looking  round  behind  him,  apparently  for 
a  tram.  Before  he  reached  her  he  saw  Helen  Burkett, 
and  raised  his  hat,  with  a  faint  smile  as  he  did  so,  and 
was  for  passing  on. 

She  stopped  him,  and  glanced  at  the  frightened  face 
of  the  little  girl. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"Her  mother  has  just  died.  A  shocking  case,  in  Col- 
lier's Wood  or  Lower  Tooting,  somewhere,"  he  told  her 
in  a  low  voice,  so  that  the  child  could  not  hear. 

"Let  me  come  with  you !"  He  hesitated,  and  she  added 
hurriedly,  "It  will  do  me  good,  believe  me." 

He  was  startled  at  her  earnestness  when  she  re- 
peated, "Let  me  come,  Mervyn.  I  must.  They  may  want 
a  woman,"  she  urged. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  343 

"I  dare  not  take  you,  Hel — Mrs.  Burkett!  It  would 
be  too  painful  for  you!" 

"Too  painful?  You  do  not  understand  me,  I 
see." 

They  got  into  a  tram  together,  without  speaking 
further.  Twenty  minutes  later  they  stood  by  the  broken 
straw  mattress  on  which  lay  the  wreck  of  what  had  once 
been  a  living  woman. 

Another  child  was  huddled  up  in  filthy  rags  in  the 
corner.  She  was  holding  a  piece  of  an  old  sack  tightly 
round  her  while  she  slept.  It  was  bitterly  cold  and  damp 
in  the  room  where  the  dead  mother  lay. 

Mervyn  Ingestre  did  not  look  at  the  woman  he  loved. 
He  knew  she  had  shuddered  and  cried  out;  and  that  she 
was  now  rapidly  taking  off  her  gloves  and  cloak.  He 
gave  the  child,  that  had  come  with  him,  some  money,  and 
sent  her  off  on  an  errand  for  coals  and  wood  and  bread 
and  bovril,  all  of  which  he  knew  she  could  get  close  at 
hand. 

Two  women  who  dwelt  in  the  same  house  had  fol- 
lowed them  up  the  dirty  street  and  saw  them  enter.  They 
now  came  to  the  door  of  the  room  and  stood  staring 
awkwardly. 

Helen  turned  to  them.  "You  know  what  we  shall 
want.  One  of  you  get  some  hot  water,  and  one  of  you 
go  for  some  sheeting  quickly.  Here  is  half  a  sovereign." 
She  took  out  her  purse.  "You  shall  have  another  if  you 
do  as  I  tell  you.  Has  the  doctor  been?" 

"No,  lidy.  It'll  be  a  kyse  forve'  parrish,  pore 
soul!" 

"Well,  tell  them,  of  course." 

The  women  went  off,  and  she  turned  to  her  com- 
panion. Her  face  was  grave — collected,  now  that  the 
shock  had  passed. 

"Mervyn,  people  live  like  this — and  die!  She  has 
starved  to  death !  .  .  .  I  must  have  known,  and  yet  I  did 
not  know  till  now!"  She  left  off  speaking,  and  then  went 
to  the  heap  of  rags  in  the  corner,  and  bent  down  over 
the  still  sleeping  child. 


344  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

He  saw  the  pity  in  her  face  and  attitude,  and  never 
had  she  seemed  so  wonderful  a  woman  as  then. 

"Had  we  known  we  might  have  saved  her.  The  child 
had  been  to  William  Ridley's  place,  and  Mrs.  Ridley  sent 
her  up  to  me  this  afternoon.  That  was  the  first  we  heard 
of  it.  Lots  of  them  die  like  this,  I'm  afraid.  It  is  too 
awful,"  he  said  sadly. 

She  came  and  stood  beside  him  by  the  dead,  and  he 
saw  that  she  had  been  crying  over  the  heap  of  rags  in 
the  corner. 

An  hour  later  they  left  the  wretched  slum,  into  which 
a  brown  fog  had  crept  like  a  loathsome  thing,  foul  as 
the  roadway  and  broken  pavement  above  which  it 
hung. 

She  said  good-bye  to  him  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
walked  swiftly  home.  The  thing  she  had  just  seen  put 
away  her  own  trouble. 

The  girl's  face  as  she  let  her  mistress  in  puzzled  and 
vaguely  annoyed  the  latter. 

James  was  lying  stretched  on  the  couch  by  the  fire. 
She  glanced  at  him,  and  was  going  over  to  him,  a  woman 
chastened  in  spirit,  when  a  strangeness  in  his  face  stopped 
her.  It  was  dark  red,  and  a  half  grin  lurked  about  his 
red  eyes  and  mouth.  He  was  drunk. 

"Cheer  O !  Helen,  ole  girl !     Happy  Chrishmas !" 

He  laughed  outright,  and  his  laugh  was  at  once  lick- 
erish and  mocking  with  the  sardonic  acid  in  it. 

Her  own  face  was  dull  red  as  she  stood  and  stared 
at  him. 

He  got  up  slowly,  and  then  turned  on  her  quickly. 
In  his  hand  was  a  piece  of  mistletoe,  and  he  held  it  over 
her — a  sudden  and  stupid  solemnity  in  his  face  and  ac- 
tion. Then  he  laughed  again. 

"Ah,  ah!  Helen,  ole  girl.  Jush  one,  for  your  own 
hushban,  eh?" 

She  was  shocked  at  his  face — after  the  thing  she  had 
left  in  the  Lower  Tooting  slum. 

All  in  ignorance  of  where  she  had  been,  her  eyes,  as 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  345 

she  shrank  back  from  him,  stung  him  to  the  swift  anger 
of  drunken  men. 

"You  won't?  Won' I  you,  my  dear!  I  shay  you'll 
kiss  your  hushban  under  mishletoe  when  he  ashks  you. 
Come!" 

She  was  a  strong  woman.  Had  it  occurred  before 
her  chastening  of  spirit  she  would  have  struggled  away 
from  him  in  a  frenzy  of  hate  and  repulsion.  As  it  was, 
after  a  vain  attempt  to  prevent  him,  he  got  her  in  his 
powerful  arms,  his  eyes  gone  mad  at  her  resistance  with 
strong  desire  and  drink.  He  kissed  her  repeatedly.  Then 
he  let  her  go,  and  turned'sullenly  satisfied,  to  the  couch. 
He  threw  himself  down,  and  fell  asleep. 

She  had  hurried  to  their  bedroom  and  quietly  turned 
the  key.  His  violence  had  brought  it  all  back  again.  She 
sat  down  on  a  chair  and  covered  her  face  and  eyes  with 
her  hands.  She  must  escape  from  him  at  all  costs.  Life 
with  him  would  soon  become  impossible.  All  at  once 
anger  with  her  husband  had  left  her,  and  with  it  hate. 
Contempt,  in  its  turn,  was  gone.  All  her  faculties  now 
grew  quiet  and  cunning.  A  sense  of  an  invincible  strength 
of  love  for  the  other  man  filled  her.  She  would  win  him 
for  her  own.  She  would  leave  her  husband — but  not 
yet.  Mervyn  should  see  she  had  tried  her  best  to  live  with 
the  man  who  had  married  her,  as  James  Burkett's  wife. 
James  had  lost  all  power  to  frighten  her  now.  In  the 
roots  of  her  being  she  knew  she  would  bear  him  no  more 
children — she  knew  it. 

If  the  other  would  not  come  to  her  she  would  seduce 
him.  She  knew  him  instinctively  for  a  man  pure  of 
women,  and  the  thought  intoxicated  her  as  she  sat  there, 
thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  with  changing  but  indomita- 
ble eyes. 

James  awoke  sober  from  his  drunken  sleep  before 
bed  time.  He  was  surprised  to  find  she  had  taken  it 
quietly  and  that  she  was  apparently  anxious  to  forget  it 
when  he  apologized  as  if  ashamed.  Afterward  he 
thought  he  had  taught  her  a  lesson. 

They  spent  Christmas  Day  amicably  together  with  his 


346  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

family  at  "Downlands."  Mrs.  Darell,  who  had  found 
another  tenant  for  "Cloudeshill,"  had  left  Wimbledon  to 
keep  house  for  her  brother,  who  had  lost  his  wife.  She 
made  one  of  the  party.  Helen  did  not  tell  her  mother  of 
the  turn  events  had  taken. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

PHOEBE'S  REVENGE 

MRS.  GUNN  and  Mrs.  Lowage — who  have  been  al- 
ready introduced  to  the  reader — were  the  leaders  of  two 
schools  of  thought  in  "literary"  Wimbledon.  Both  wrote 
novels  with  alarming  facility;  and  each  made  a  point  of 
waging  a  relentless  war  of  scathing  criticisms  against  the 
creations  of  the  other — excepting  on  those  occasions  when 
they  happened  to  meet,  when  they  mutually  observed  a 
strict  armistice  and  became  even  friendly. 

If  neither  could  be  said  to  have  added  greatly  to  the 
world's  art,  they  had  not  been  without  their  influence 
upon  a  section  of  Wimbledon  society,  which  had  divided 
itself  into  The  Gunns  and  The  Lowages:  to  which  di- 
vision some  Wimbledonian  households  bore  frequent  and 
eloquent  testimony — permanent  "separations"  having  oc- 
curred in  one  or  two  instances. 

Mrs.  Gunn's  methods  were  principally  "subjective"; 
the  "objective"  being  systematically  adhered  to  by  Mrs. 
Lowage.  With  the  latter,  Virtue  always  rose  triumphant 
at  the  proper  moment,  and  Vice,  after  gnashing  its  teeth 
frightfully,  generally  hurled  itself  down  dreadful  abysses 
— which  yawned  in  the  most  unexpected  places,  where  one 
would  really  never  have  thought  of  looking  for  them — 
and  was  seen  no  more.  Her  heroes  were  in  the  nature 
of  a  Type,  visualized  by  their  creator  into  permanence, 
until  they  might  almost  be  said  to  represent  a  distinct 
species.  They  frequently  had  eyes  blue  as  June  is  in  the 
Austrian  Tyrol,  and  iron  frames  as  commonly  as  piano- 
fortes. Her  villains  were  so  extraordinary  villainous 
that  it  was  really  wonderful  how  they  managed  to  dis- 

347 


348  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

guise  their  real  nature  at  all,  under  any  mask  smaller 
than  a  railway  arch — even  from  her  heroines,  who  were 
almost  too  good  for  this  world  and  never  noticed  the 
great  chunks  of  villainy  sticking  out  in  places  until  the 
mask  fell  off,  just  after  the  hero  entered,  and  all  was 
revealed. 

Mrs.  Gunn's  masterpieces — "Love's  Liquorice"  and 
"The  Vivisection  of  Vivienne,"  which  had  created  quite  a 
sensation,  had  been  publicly  denounced  by  her  rival  as 
"pornographic";  and  respectable  Wimbledon  had  in- 
dorsed her  opinion  to  the  extent  of  denying  any  ac- 
quaintance with  them,  except  from  hearsay,  and  reading 
them  in  private. 

Mrs.  Lowage's  magnum  opus — written  as  a  whole- 
some corrective  to  the  pernicious  influences  of  "Liquorice" 
and  "Vivisection" — had  evoked  from  Mrs.  Gunn  the 
critique  that  Mrs.  Lowage  in  "Sir  Harry  Montacute's 
Honor,"  was  still  weltering  in  the  flood  of  her  own  il- 
limitable inane;  and  respectable  Wimbledon,  while  the- 
oretically rejecting  her  opinion  in  public,  had  privately  ac- 
cepted it. 

In  Mrs.  Lowage,  Phoebe  Price  (now  the  wife  of  the 
Rev.  Eustice  Heugh)  on  the  occasion  of  the  wedding  of 
James  Burkett  and  Helen  Darell,  had  found  an  ardent 
sympathizer.  Phoebe  had  loved  James  with  as  much 
love  as  she  was  capable  of  feeling  for  anyone ;  and  she 
hated  her  successful  rival  in  the  affections  of  that  young 
gentleman  with  a  very  considerable  hatred. 

The  Rev.  Eustice  still  met  Mervyn  Ingestre  casually, 
and  one  day  he  had  mentioned  to  his  wife  that  he  had 
seen  Ingestre  and  Mrs.  Burkett  together  on  more  than 
one  occasion.  His  remark  had  set  Phoebe  thinking;  and 
at  last  her  chance  came  for  revenge. 

At  one  of  Mrs.  Lowage's  "at  homes"  she  had  adroitly 
turned  the  conversation  upon  the  subject  of  Mervyn  In- 
gestre, and  a  few  carefully  worded  hints  respecting  a 
certain  consolation  he  found  in  his  work  among  the  lower 
orders  had  at  once  commanded  the  attention  of  her  audi- 
ence. No  name  was  mentioned  at  the  time,  but  her  indi- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  349 

cations  pointed  too  unmistakably  to  one  woman  for  any 
doubt  to  exist  in  the  minds  of  her  listeners — more  than 
one  of  whom  had  a  personal  animus  against  Helen  Bur- 
kett. 

To  do  Mrs.  Lowage  justice  she  tried  to  stop  the 
scandal,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  publicly  remonstrate 
with  Mrs.  Heugh.  She  might  as  well  have  tried  to  stop 
the  sea. 

Here  then  was  the  reason  of  Mervyn  Ingestre's  inex- 
plicable conduct!  The  wicked  woman  had  cast  a  spell 
over  him  on  her  own  wedding  day !  Now  she  was  seek- 
ing to  "assist"  him  while  he  expiated  his  fault  which  was 
hers! 

A  dozen  ladies  at  once  jumped  to  similar  conclusions, 
and  promptly  proceeded  to  compare  notes.  Mervyn  In- 
gestre  and  Helen  Burkett  were  a  marked  man  and  woman 
for  the  future.  Confirmation  of  Mrs.  Heugh's  remarks 
was  soon  to  hand;  and  innuendoes  became  definite 
charges;  and  definite  charges  were  followed  by  con- 
viction of  guilt,  after  the  evidence  of  the  suborned  wit- 
nesses of  calumny.  People  began  to  talk  openly,  and  it 
soon  reached  James  Burkett's  ears — to  the  secret  delight 
of  the  originator  of  the  scandal,  whose  objective  was 
not  so  much  his  punishment  as  that  of  the  woman  his 
wife. 

Now  James  Burkett  trusted  his  wife.  She  had  told 
him  of  all  her  meetings  with  Mervyn  since  her  avowal  to 
her  husband.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  such  meetings  had 
been  few  and  perfectly  open — nor  had  anything  of  love 
been  hinted  at  on  either  side.  She  had  told  Mervyn  of 
her  confession  to  James  and  her  husband's  consent  to  their 
meeting;  and  Mervyn  had  tackled  an  unpleasant  situation 
and  seen  James  personally.  He  had  passed  his  word  of 
honor  there  should  be  no  word  of  love  spoken  betwee'n 
him  and  Burkett's  wife.  No  one,  by  nature  inherently 
vile,  could  know  Mervyn  Ingestre  and  believe  him  capa- 
ble of  willful  deceit  or  baseness.  There  were  a  purity  and 
honesty  and  an  utter  absence  of  guile  about  the  man  which 
were  too  self-evident  to  be  mistaken;  and  James,  though 


350  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

naturally  inclined  at  first  to  abominate  all  thought  of  the 
other,  had,  after  their  interview,  felt  considerably  re- 
lieved. He  couldn't  understand  what  any  woman  could 
see  in  Mervyn  to  be  so  infatuated — especially  when  that 
woman  happened  to  be  James  Burkett's  wife.  He  con- 
cluded that  it  was  an  infatuation  which  would  pass;  and 
he  determined  to  show  Helen  that  there  was  more  in  him 
than  her  lover — poet  or  no  poet.  She  would  soon  grow 
sick  of  "slumming."  And  his  drunken  lapse  had,  no 
doubt,  shamed  her  into  playing  the  game  with  him. 
Whatever  her  faults,  she  was  too  good  a  sportswoman  at 
heart  to  drive  her  own  husband  to  drink.  In  his  better 
moments  he  had  doubted  if  it  had  been  quite  a  gentle- 
manly or  even  manly  thing  to  do.  Losing  their  baby  had 
perhaps  unhinged  her  a  bit.  But  there  you  were !  Good- 
ness knows  he  had  used  her  lightly  enough  as  a  rule,  but 
there  were  times  with  fillies  when  the  curb  rein  had  to  be 
used  1  She  had  been  docile  and  easy  enough  to  manage, 
after  it  He  had  taken  it  in  time.  She  had  taken  a 
woman's  fancy,  a  whim,  for  the  curate  fellow.  Women 
were  so  damned  sentimental  and  all  that.  And  it  would 
save  him  going  in  for  all  that  art  rubbish  and  book- 
worming  if  she  had  someone  she  could  gush  over  such 
dry  things  with. 

But, — and  it  was  a  big  but — the  thought  of  being 
taken  for,  and  spoken  of  as,  a  "complacent  husband"  was 
too  much  for  his  vanity.  He  couldn't  have  people  talk- 
ing about  him  behind  his  back!  With  his  mother's  as- 
sistance he  had  traced  the  scandal  to  its  source — the  easier 
as  his  wife  had  immediately  put  her  finger  on  the  right 
spot,  and  his  inquiries  had  proved  her  correctness;  but 
the  poison  of  calumny  did  its  work.  He  became  irritable, 
suspicious,  at  last,  of  everyone.  He  experienced  a  curi- 
ous shrinking  from  telling  her  about  the  talk  that  was 
going  on;  he  feared,  yes,  actually  feared  (he  did  not  re- 
member having  ever  feared  anything  before  as  he  feared 
his  wife)  the  quiet  questioning  of  her  wonderful  eyes 
which  would  read  him  like  a  book,  and,  after  a  half  scorn- 
ful query  as  to  whether  he  doubted  her,  her  remark  which 


'THRACIAN  SEA"  351 

would  follow  it, — she  was  not  aware  that  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  studying,  or  respecting,  or  valuing  the  suscep- 
tibilities or  opinions  of  the  good  people  in  question. 

He  must  take  every  opportunity  of  getting  her  away 
with  him  whenever  he  could.  The  chance  of  a  few  days 
with  the  Steyning  and  Henfield  Foxhounds  presented  it- 
self: they  could  find  a  common  pleasure  in  a  day  or  two's 
hunting  together:  it  was  too  good  to  be  lost. 

She  did  not  want  to  go  just  then — she  had  made  an 
arrangement  with  Mervyn  to  assist  in  some  readings  at 
The  Regenerators — but  she  at  once  acquiesced  in  her 
husband's  suggestion  that  they  should  start  for  his  friend's 
place  near  West  Grinstead  that  day  week,  and  wrote  a 
note  of  explanation  to  her  lover. 

At  "Downlands"  poor  Mrs.  Burkett  had  been  under- 
going a  purgatory  of  anguish  and  suspense  for  her  son. 
He  had  told  his  mother  of  Helen's  statement  to  him 
and  Ingestre's  interview  and  promise.  Mrs.  Burkett, 
knowing  the  girl's  character  as  she  now  did,  felt  herself 
powerless,  and  unable  to  help  him  except  with  her  sym- 
pathy. 

On  Thursday  morning  there  came  a  letter  for  James 
from  a  man  who  suggested  a  week-end  run  on  their  motor 
bikes  to  North  Wales.  The  weather  was  fine  and  mild. 
The  idea  appealed  to  him:  Helen  should  see  that  he 
could  trust  her.  The  afterthought  appealed  to  his  feel- 
ings of  magnanimity.  He  wasn't  one  to  play  the  spy 
over  his  wife. 

"He  wants  me  to  go  for  a  run  round  North  Wales  on 
the  puffer  this  week-end,  Helen,"  he  said  as  he  put  the 
letter  down.  "I  daresay  you  can  spare  me!"  He  would 
chaff  her  out  of  her  nonsense.  It  would  all  help.  He 
wanted  to  go,  and  she  was  less  likely  to  object  if  he  used 
a  little  "sarc." 

"Yes,  Jim.  Certainly,  go  by  all  means."  She  paid 
no  attention  to  his  banter.  She  even  went  off  and  found 
his  maps  and  road  books  for  him. 

So  it  was  agreed. 

When  he  had  left  the  house  she  picked  up  one  of 


352  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

the  maps,  then  another,  and  another,  thoughtfully.  For 
a  long  time  she  studied  them  closely  in  silence.  Then  she 
said  of  a  sudden,  "That's  it!"  and  went  on  with  her  study, 
but  this  time  only  around  one  particular  place  on  the 
map. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

A  STRANGER  COMES  TO  STOKE  MIDFORD 

GAMMER  POLGREAN'S  Christmas  had  been  prophe- 
sied as  her  last  among  her  neighbors.  Bronchitis  took 
her  for  the  first  time  in  all  her  years,  and  she  for  long 
lay  in  desperate  case — her  brave  old  eyes  growing  dim- 
mer and  dimmer  after  each  succeeding  struggle  for 
breath.  Twice  it  seemed  that  she  had  fought  in  vain, 
that  the  tired  heart  had  stopped,  but  the  Gammer  was  not 
done  with  yet. 

Mrs.  Gates  and  Margaret,  from  Lonesome — Mr. 
Gates'  farm,  at  Hazley  Parva — hurried  to  her  aid.  Dur- 
ing her  convalescence  she  averred  that  it  was  her  determi- 
nation to  nurse  the  baby  that  had  kept  her  alive.  At  the 
turn  of  the  year  the  danger  was  passed;  and  ere  January 
was  half  through  she  had  her  desire.  Mrs.  Gates  re- 
turned to  her  husband:  Margaret  remained  at  Midford, 
indifferent  to  gossip  now  that  she  could  nurse  the  old 
woman  back  to  health,  who  had  stood  by  her  in  sturdy 
championship  after  her  flight  from  the  land  of  her  own 
people.  The  thought  that  the  baby  had  been  begotten 
in  their  loved  Midford  Holt  pleased  the  Gammer  im- 
mensely; and  she  startled  the  girl,  after  hearing  sundry 
confessions,  with  a  flurry  of  hope,  by  insisting  that  her 
man  would  be  glad  to  return  to  her  yet,  in  due  season. 

On  the  Friday  afternoon  when  James  Burkett  sped 


toward  the  Welsh  mountains  she  was  sitting  by  the  par- 
gray  shawl.     Beside 
the  hearth-rug,  was  the  child.  With  occasional  chucklings 


lor  fire  wrapped  in  a  great  gray  shawl.     Beside  her,  on 


he  waved  a  dappled  gray  horse  by  its  sole  surviving  leg, 
353 


354  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Margaret  was  in  the  kitchen  tidying  up,  and  washing  baby 
clothes. 

Gammer  sat  peacefully  watching  the  child,  crowing 
and  clucking  to  him  from  time  to  time.  Presently,  after 
a  careful  examination  of  the  fire-guard,  her  eyes  closed 
and  she  fell  into  a  doze. 

A  woman  with  a  veil,  in  walking  costume  and  thick 
boots,  turned  into  the  road  that  ran  through  Stoke  Mid- 
ford  from  the  south,  and  approached  the  hamlet.  She 
studied  the  cottages  carefully  right  and  left  of  her.  A 
woman  came  to  the  door  of  one  of  them  to  stare  at  the 
stranger,  who,  after  a  glance  in  her  direction,  walked 
on,  and  the  other  went  back  into  the  cottage. 

The  woman  in  the  veil  was  walking  more  slowly  now. 
There  were  only  two  other  cottages  ahead  of  her,  the  first 
a  few  score  yards  from  the  cluster  she  had  just  come 
through,  the  second  some  distance  further  up  the  valley. 

As  she  reached  the  first  cottage  a  baby  boy,  with  yel- 
low hair  and  brown  eyes,  appeared  in  the  open  gateway. 
He  clutched  at  the  green  palings  for  support  with  one 
hand,  while  he  threw  a  one-legged  horse  before  him  into 
the  road,  chuckling  to  himself  as  he  did  so.  Then  he 
began  to  advance  into  the  open  on  slow,  unsteady  feet. 
He  saw  the  woman  with  the  veil  and  stopped.  He  began 
to  laugh.  Then  he  fell  down. 

The  woman  with  the  veil  hastened  to  his  aid.  As  she 
did  so  she  heard  an  aged  voice  somewhere  in  the  cottage 
call  out :  "Jimmy !  Jim-mie !  Where's  he  to,  Margret, 
the  raresk'll,  he  be  arf  agen,  to  be  sure !  I  just  dozed  a 
bit,  dearie  1" 

A  young  woman  came  hurrying  through  the  open 
door.  By  this  the  woman  with  the  veil  had  picked  up  the 
truant  and  was  brushing  the  grit  out  of  his  little  palms. 
His  mother  thanked  her  shyly,  and  the  woman  with  the 
veil  said: 

"What  a  dear  little  boy.     How  old  is  he?" 

"Eighteen  months  this  month,  ma'am."  She  had 
picked  up  the  horse.  Now  she  picked  up  her  baby  boy, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  355 

and  stood  shaking  her  head  smilingly  over  his  solemn 
face  that  stared  at  the  stranger. 

"Dear  little  chap!  Good-bye,  baby!"  The  woman 
with  the  veil  waved  her  hand  to  him,  and  walked  away. 

The  mother  stood  by  the  gate  watching  her  go,  be- 
tween whiles  gently  pinching  the  child's  cheeks  and  nose. 
Then  she  went  back  into  the  cottage,  and  shut  the  door 
behind  her. 

The  woman  with  the  veil  walked  quickly  past  the 
remaining  cottage,  scarcely  looking  at  it. 

When  she  reached  the  cross  roads,  further  on,  with- 
out hesitation  she  turned  to  the  right,  and  approached 
the  great  belt  of  purple-brown  beech  woods.  She  had 
studied  the  district  carefully,  on  the  map,  and  had  re- 
membered the  roads  and  the  lie  of  the  land. 

Some  half  a  mile  further  on  a  fallen  tree  lay  along 
the  grassy  strip  beside  the  road.  She  sat  down  and  lifted 
her  veil,  after  glancing  up  and  down  the  road.  The 
place  was  very  lonely:  the  woods  thick  before  her  and 
behind.  It  suited  her  mood,  and  she  was  soon  deep  in 
thought.  Once  she  brought  out  from  her  pocket  a  piece 
of  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  made  a  quick  calculation,  going 
over  the  figures  twice,  thrice.  Then  she  tore  the  paper 
to  small  pieces  and  dropped  them  behind  the  trunk. 

Her  face  had  brightened  with  a  curious  smile.  Did 
he  know,  she  wondered.  In  the  child's  face  she  had  seen 
her  husband's:  the  girl  was  the  girl  she  had  seen  him 
with  that  night,  some  two  years  before.  Margaret:  the 
Margaret  he  had  spoken  of  in  his  sleep.  And  she  had 
called  their  child  Jimmy — after  its  father,  the  man  her 
husband.  Gradually  she  filled  in  the  picture  that  came 
before  her  dark  strange  eyes.  Her  child — the  child  she 
had  borne  him  was  dead:  there  was  no  jealousy  in  her 
eyes,  but  the  light  of  thoughts  that  had  in  them  the  prom- 
ise of  a  great  hope  for  the  thinker.  Then  she  spoke  out 
aloud : 

"Now,  my  dear,  my  own  love,  we  shall  come  together 
in  the  end!  Do  you  hear,  Mervyn — You  and  I!  .  .  . 
He  shall  not  part  us  for  ever,  or  for  long.  Oh,  my  lover, 


356  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

my  own  true  love,  I  want  you  so !  No,  Mervyn,  you  do 
not  know  how  much  I  want  you.  But  one  day,  sweet- 
heart, one  day  I  will  be  your  wife.  I  will  love  you  as 
few  women  love — as  women  love  when  they  worship  a 
man  as  I  worship  you.  You  are  worth  it,  my  beloved. 
Oh,  God,  how  I  love  you,  Mervyn !  I  love  you,  love  you, 
love  you!"  Her  voice  sank  from  a  note  of  exaltation 
down  into  a  whisper  through  the  last  sentence.  Her  face 
was  transfigured,  rapt,  with  passion  and  tenderness. 

For  an  hour  she  sat  there  thinking,  dreaming,  whis- 
pering to  herself;  undisturbed  in  that  lonely  road  between 
the  high  beech  woods,  from  which  the  light  went  slowly, 
leaving,  as  it  went,  blue,  beautiful  shadows  among  the 
trees. 

At  last  she  rose  from  her  seat,  and  looked  at  her 
watch.  Then  she  pulled  down  her  veil,  and  continued  her 
journey,  walking  swiftly  and  confidently  toward  the  town 
of  Shapston. 

When  she  reached  the  grass  country  beyond  the  woods 
a  horse  came  whinnying  to  a  gate  as  she  passed.  She 
stopped,  and  stroked  his  muzzle.  She  thought  of  her 
own  horse,  who  had  unwittingly  carried  her  into  the  land 
of  bondage.  The  time  was  coming  when  she  would  have 
to  forget  him,  when  she  would  ride  no  more.  As  she 
walked  on  her  chief  regret  was  one  about  a  horse.  For 
a  little  she  played  with  the  fancies  such  regret  evoked. 
Then  she  put  them  from  her,  and  forgot  everything  but 
the  man  she  loved.  Soon  she  was  going  on  a  quest  where 
no  horse  could  carry  her;  a  hunting  whose  quarry  was 
her  soul's  satisfying,  her  heart's  desire. 


CHAPTER   XL 

HER  TAME  POET  SAYS  GOOD-NIGHT  TO  HIS  DIVINITY,  AND 
TO  HER  MOTHER-IN-LAW 

As  James  Burkett  let  himself  in,  by  the  front  door 
of  his  house,  his  mother  came  to  him  from  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Jim,  your  cousin  Harry  and  his  wife,  from  America, 
are  here.  I've  come  on  with  them  from  'Downlands.' 
They're  off  to  Birmingham  first  thing  to-morrow." 

"Oh?"  Something  in  his  mother's  face  made  him 
add,  "Is  Helen  there?" 

"No,  she  was  out  when  we  called,  and  she  hasn't 
come  back  yet." 

"Hang  the  girl!"  James  wanted  his  visitors  to  see 
Helen  as  his  wife  and  as  their  hostess.  "She's  down 
there  with  her  tame  poet,  regenerating  some  of  the  great 
unwashed,  spouting  away  to  a  lot  of  engine-drivers  or 
something !  I  wonder  she's  not  tired  of  the  thing  by  now. 
There's  no  end  of  a  mess  of  papers  about  the  house  she's 
been  fiddling  about  with  for  days,  for  some  penny  read- 
ing or  other  they're  up  to.  Thank  goodness  we're  off  out 
of  it,  for  a  bit,  to-morrow!"  They  were  to  start  for 
West  Grinstead  on  the  following  morning. 

His  mother  could  see  he  was  annoyed  at  his  wife's 
absence. 

"I'll  run  down  to  the  place  and  bring  her  back,  Jim. 
It'll  not  take  me  long.  I  can  get  a  bus,  and  a  cab  at  the 
station.  She  didn't  know  they  were  coming,  of  course,  or 
I  don't  suppose  she'd  have  gone  out  this  evening." 

James  looked  doubtfully  at  her.  "Will  you,  mother? 
Thanks  awfully,  you're  a  brick !"  He  wanted  his  tea. 

357 


358  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

They  went  into  the  room  and  James  began  to  enter- 
tain his  guests  as  well  as  he  could.  His  mother,  after 
apologizing  to  them  for  having  her  son's  tea  brought  to 
him,  went  off  on  a  search  for  the  lady  beautiful  of  the 
house. 

She  reached  The  Regenerators.  There  was  a  light 
in  the  club  room.  She  knocked  at  the  door.  William 
Ridley  opened  it. 

"Yes,  ma'am?" 

"Is  Mrs.  Burkett  here?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.     Come  in." 

Mrs.  Burkett,  senior,  stepped  into  the  room.  At  the 
far  end  was  a  typewriter  on  a  table  covered  with  papers. 
Helen  was  sorting  out  some  of  the  latter.  On  a  bench 
at  one  end  of  the  table  a  young  man,  in  a  tram-driver's 
uniform,  stared  at  her  in  respectful  wonder.  At  the  other 
end  of  the  table  Mervyn  Ingestre  sat  writing  rapidly. 

Helen  looked  up,  and  caught  sight  of  her  mother-in- 
law. 

"Half  a  minute !"  She  packed  up  a  lot  of  the  sheets 
and  put  them  on  one  side.  Then  she  came  across  the 
room  to  the  other.  "Yes,  mother?" 

"Helen,  Jim's  cousin  Harry  from  America's  turned 
up  unexpectedly  with  his  wife.  Jim  wants  you  to  meet 
them:  they  want  to  meet  you  very  much,  dear.  I  said 
I'd  run  down  and  find  you  as  you  didn't  know.  I've  a  cab 
outside.  Perhaps  you  won't  mind  coming  back  with  me? 
They're  off  early  to-morrow  morning." 

"Certainly!"  She  went  back  to  the  table  and  showed 
some  of  the  papers  to  Mervyn  Ingestre.  The  latter  had 
risen  and  bowed  to  Mrs.  Burkett  when  she  entered. 
Helen  was  soon  ready.  She  pulled  on  her  gloves,  and 
said  good-night  to  Mervyn  and  to  the  young  man.  Wil- 
liam Ridley  opened  the  door:  Ingestre  saw  them  into  the 
cab,  and  said  good-night  again. 

Mrs.  Burkett  was  pleased  with  the  success  of  her 
journey  and  at  the  girl's  ready  acquiescence.  She  would 
be  back  with  her  in  under  the  hour.  In  the  present  state 
of  affairs  she  dreaded  anything  which  might  aggravate 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  359 

either  her  son  or  his  wife  in  their  relations  with  each 
other.  Now  in  the  cab  she  began  chatting  amicably  about 
their  visitors. 

Helen  answered  her  with  as  much  interest  in  the  sub- 
ject as  she  could  summon  up,  and  with  as  much  attention 
as  common  politeness  required.  For  the  greater  part  of 
the  time  she  was  wondering  what  his  mother  would  feel 
if  she  knew  about  the  girl  Margaret  and  the  child  Jimmy. 
Since  her  newly  acquired  knowledge  of  women  in  the  hum- 
bler stations  of  life,  Helen  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  James  was  in  ignorance  of  the  truth  of  the  matter. 
She  knew  that  girls  had  a  certain  "pride,"  in  these  things, 
more  commonly  than  was  generally  supposed,  which  made 
them  bear  their  trouble  in  secret  and  in  silence,  rather 
than  bring  worry  or  disgrace  on  the  man  they  loved.  She 
believed  that  this  had  been  the  case  with  Margaret.  Some- 
thing in  the  young  mother's  eyes  had  revealed  her  nature 
sufficiently  to  the  other  for  the  latter  to  judge  correctly 
as  to  her  conduct  toward  the  man  who  had  got  her  into 
trouble. 

As  for  herself,  with  the  secret  in  her  possession,  she 
was  content  to  wait  a  while.  Mervyn,  James — both 
should  see  she  had  tried  hard  to  remain  as  wife  to  the 
man  she  had  married.  Her  one  fear  was  that  any  hasty 
action  on  her  part  might  send  Mervyn  away  for  ever. 
His  passion  for  her  must  grow,  as  those  hours  of  weari- 
ness induced  by  the  too  often  thankless  nature  of  his  self- 
imposed  tasks  accumulated.  She  v/ould  make  herself  in- 
dispensable, necessary,  to  him — her  society  the  one  thing 
peaceful,,  with  such  peace  as  a  poet  would  long  for  in  his 

She  must  carefully  prepare  Mervyn  first  She  would 
let  him  gradually  understand  how  much  she,  too,  was 
suffering.  Then,  when  the  time  was  propitious,  she  would 
refuse  to  remain  the  wife  of  a  man  she  had  ceased  to 
love,  and  who  had  a  child  alive  by  another  woman.  There 
were  moments  in  her  life  when  she  felt  a  sickening  aver- 
sion for  her  husband,  a  frantic  desire  to  escape  from  him 
for  ever.  Shame  indescribable  stung  her  through  long 


360  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

secret  hours  of  self-loathing  and  contempt.  It  was  part 
of  the  price  she  must  pay,  and  only  she  knew  that  she 
paid  in  full.  She  even  felt  a  ghastly  pleasure  in  her  pun- 
ishment at  times — now  that  she  might  hope:  when  that 
day  came  when  she  would  have  her  desire  she  felt  it 
would  be  sweeter,  fuller,  for  her  having  passed  through 
those  places  of  the  spirit's  purgatory,  set  darkling  for  that 
pilgrimage  peculiar  to  her  sex. 


CHAPTER   XLI 

BETWEEN  THE  HILLS  AND  THE  SEA 

THE  sea  wind  streams  up  the  valley,  singing  through 
the  bents  on  the  hillsides  and  rustling  the  dry  dead  leaves 
of  the  previous  year  that  still  cling  on  the  oaks  in  the 
more  sheltered  places.  Spring  is  coming,  but  there  are 
few  signs  of  her  yet  for  the  eyes — the  other  senses  are, 
however,  kept  well  aware  of  her  approach.  There  is  no 
mistaking  that  sweet  soft  "difference"  in  the  air — down 
here  in  this  little  coombe  that  widens  out  into  the  bigger 
valley  in  front;  with  the  great  swelling  breasts  of  the 
down  rising  up  behind  it,  and  curved  so  that  the  top  is 
completely  hidden  from  view.  There  is  no  mistaking  the 
song  the  thrush  is  singing — that  is,  reader,  if  you  are  not 
too  entirely  "civilized"  to  be  susceptible  to  such  "trivial" 
things — or  that  of  the  blackbird,  his  sable  congener,  who 
mocks  his  song  and  embellishes  it  with  a  dozen  conceits 
of  his  own.  I  will  not  say  there  is  no  mistaking  the  song 
that  is,  apparently,  falling  from  the  soft  gray-white  sky: 
in  a  sense  the  lark  is  incomprehensible — God. 

Only  a  singing  bird — nice,  roasted?  Maybe.  To 
some  folk,  still,  these  things  are  more  than  fine  clothes 
or  fine  houses  or  motor  cars  or  music  halls,  or  the  wisdom 
of  crowds  and  cities,  which  has  said  that  Simplicity  is 
the  sign  of  fools,  and  that  a  rich  rogue  is  a  finer  figure 
than  a  poor  fool;  that  luxuries  are  the  true  necessaries 
of  life ;  that  the  ultimate  of  true  wisdom  for  the  individual 
and  for  the  race  is  to  be  found  in  the  development  of 
man's  capacity  for  dominating  and  exploiting  his  fellows 
by  superior  "business  ability" ;  that  neurosis,  dyspepsia, 
and  failing  eyesight  are  insignificant  trifles  when  weighed 


362  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

in  the  balance  against  the  advantages  and  refinements  of 
Commercialism — tubes,  trams,  motor  buses,  lady  clerks, 
and  that  sharpening  up  of  the  wits  which  produces,  in  the 
few,  a  morbidly  active  secretion  of  business  acumen,  and 
in  the  many  the  slow  perversion  of  the  swift  spirit  of 
man  to  the  automatic  pulses  of  the  machine. 

Here  there  is  no  smoke  nor  sound  in  the  air  from 
the  breath  of  cities.  Here  in  this  quiet  valley  through 
the  hills  to  the  sea;  here,  where  the  thrush  sings  and 
the  blackbird  mocks  his  song;  here,  where  Earth  is  busy 
about  her  arrangements,  her  preparations  for  her  com- 
ing domestic  duties — silently  and  gladly  getting  ready  for 
her  bridal,  to  the  multitudinous  music  of  the  spring;  here, 
where  the  violets  show  like  a  mist  of  blue  along  the  edge 
of  a  hazel  copse,  and  the  purple  orchis  is  lifting  its 
spike  through  a  wave  of  lush  grass  that  sweeps  up  and 
out  of  the  valley  to  the  edge  of  the  copse — a  wave  of 
dark  green  against  the  lighter  downland  turf:  here  is 
nothing  but 

Round  a  spur  of  the  down,  to  the  northward,  a  small 
red-brown  something  comes,  running  straight  for  a  bit 
of  broken  land  and  tangled  brake  lower  down  the  valley, 
on  the  other  side  of  a  chalk  road  which  crosses  it  at  that 
point.  Here,  from  the  copse  we  can  study  him — he  has 
not  seen  us,  and  he  keeps  straight  on. 

One,  two,  one,  then  two  more,  then  others  a  little 
further  off — white  and  black  and  tan — they  come,  hard 
upon  him,  and  running  now  almost  mute.  He  is  a  good 
game  fox,  and  hounds  have  made  a  point  of  more  than 
eight  miles  over  and  through  the  hills.  With  wonderful 
skill  and  courage  this  dog-fox  runs,  picking  his  way — his 
brush  almost  as  clean  and  light  as  when  he  went  away 
from  his  favorite  gorse  an  hour  ago.  Two  "young  uns" 
lead  the  pack,  a  low  whimper  trailing  behind  them  as 
they  run;  an  old  hound,  Traveler — clever  and  game  as 
any  ever  pupped — swinging  along  steadily  a  yard  or  two 
in  their  rear.  A  splash  of  scarlet  catches  the  sun,  now 
shining  brightly  through  the  clouds;  black  coats  show 
nearer  the  copse  side :  the  thud  of  hoofs,  the  loud  breath 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  363 

of  horses  ridden  hard,  the  creak  of  straining  leather, 
the  clink  of  bridles:  there  is  no  mistaking  her  as  she 
thrusts  her  favorite  along  for  all  he  is  worth, — a  big 
man  on  a  fiddle-headed  chestnut  close  at  the  bay's  quar- 
ters, on  the  further  side. 

Instinctively  Thracian  Sea  knows  that  she  wishes  him 
to  get  away  from  the  chestnut — that  she  wishes  him  to 
struggle,  struggle,  struggle,  until  that  echo  of  hoof- 
strokes,  just  behind,  fades  away  to  the  rear.  He  knows 
these  things,  and  if  his  sight  is  getting  dimmer,  if  there 
is  a  curious  burning  sensation  in  his  lungs  right  through 
to  his  withers,  if  the  tongue  that  is  hanging  out  of  the 
side  of  his  mouth  seems  to  be  getting  too  large  ever  to 
go  back  again, — he  gallops  on. 

Her  face  is  flushed;  there  is  strangeness  in  her  dark 
eyes  as  a  cloud  shadow  darkens  the  grass  of  the  valley 
ahead  of  her  and  the  sunlight  burns  like  a  patch  of  molten 
silver  on  the  distant  plain  of  the  far  gray  sea.  Hus- 
band and  wife,  together,  side  by  side.  Better  so?  Who 
can  say?  She  has  looked  into  her  husband's  eyes,  and  her 
own  had  a  challenge  in  them. 

He  had  seen  the  challenge  in  them,  away  back,  at 
the  top  of  the  downs,  and,  because  of  it,  has  fought  it 
out  with  her  all  the  way  down  the  slope  into  the  valley. 

Now  she  looks  over  her  shoulder  at  him  again 
swiftly.  This  time  he  does  not  see.  Be  glad  of  that, 
James  Burkett,  for  her  heart,  her  soul,  are  in  her  eyes 
now;  things  implacable;  aversion;  defiance;  and  some- 
thing other  than  all  these — something  that  no  husband 
who  has  once  loved  his  wife  would  care  to  remember 
or  be  able  ever  to  forget.  Perhaps  because  of  that 
other  thing  for  which  there  is  no  name,  she  calls  on 
Thracian  Sea  once  more. 

Thracian  Sea  is  nearly  done — no  one,  not  he,  not 
even  his  lady  above  him,  knows  how  near  he  is  to  the 
end  of  his  powers.  He  shows  little  signs  of  it  save  that 
he  hangs  a  bit  up  the  hillside  to  the  left.  Twenty  miles 
and  more  has  he  galloped  with  his  beloved  mistress  this 
day;  and  the  last  mile  or  two— from  that  beech  clump 


"THRACIAN  SEA" 

which  shows  against  the  sky  at  the  head  of  the  valley 
— it  has  been  a  cracker. 

James  on  his  second  horse  can  hold  her  no  more, 
for  all  his  fresher  mount  and  hard  riding.  She  half 
turns  her  head  as  he  shouts  something  to  her.  The 
quarry  has  reached  the  stone  wall,  built  of  beach  cobbles 
in  the  Sussex  manner,  this  side  the  road,  and  is  over  a 
few  yards  in  front  of  the  leading  hounds.  As  they  scram- 
ble after  him  Traveler  suddenly  gives  tongue,  and  when 
they  appear  in  sight  again  he  has  rushed  past  his  younger 
comrades  and  closes  rapidly  with  the  pursued. 

At  the  sight  and  sound  Helen  calls  on  Thracian  Sea 
for  yet  another  effort.  The  wall  is  not  high — though  it 
is  higher  than  it  looks  at  this  distance.  Suddenly  James 
cries  out  to  her — a  sharp  cry  with  a  note  of  fear  in  it; 
but  neither  she  nor  Thracian  Sea  ever  falters. 

Something  like  a  light  of  triumph  is  in  her  face  as 
her  husband  drops  back  beaten;  then  she  gathers  her 
horse  together,  and  Thracian  Sea  answers  unflinchingly. 
He  rolls  a  bit,  it  is  true,  but  he  will  do  it,  never  fear! 

From  the  top  of  the  wall  tiny  sparks  break  into 
flower,  and  there  comes  a  puff  of  powdered  mortar:  in 
the  field  beyond  there  is  a  flurry  of  red  and  white  and 
black  and  tan  as  Traveler  pulls  down  his  fox  and  the 
others  rush  into  and  break  him  up :  more  sparks,  and  fly- 
ing dust  in  the  road  where  Thracian  Sea's  life  closes 
with  one  or  two  frantic  hoofstrokes  tearing  up  the  flints 
and  chalk:  and  the  next  moment  James  Burkett  has  scram- 
bled over  the  wall,  and,  with  a  scream  like  a  wounded 
beast,  slips  on  to  his  knees  by  his  wife's  body  lying  limp 
and  motionless  beside  Thracian  Sea.  She  is  clear  of  her 
horse,  across  whose  dappled  flanks  the  last  faint  ripple 
of  the  ebbing  wave  of  life  has  passed  and  shuddered  into 
stillness;  his  neck  is  broken — gallant  old  Thracian  Sea. 

She  is  lying  on  her  back  with  her  eyes  closed, — a  thin 
froth  of  blood  oozing  from  her  nostrils  and  mouth. 
There  is  a  look  on  her  face  which  for  a  moment  freezes 
the  man  bending  over  her  into  a  passive  attitude  of  hope- 
less despair,  and  the  next  makes  him  kiss  the  bloody  froth 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  365 

from  her  lips  with  a  passion  of  tenderness  dreadful  to 
behold. 

Some  hours  later  James  Burkett  comes  out  of  a  house 
in  a  little  Sussex  village,  half  hidden  in  the  hills,  where 
they  have  taken  her,  and  stumbles  slowly  up  the  white 
chalk  road  fading  into  the  darkness  of  the  hillside  and 
the  night. 

At  last  he  reaches  the  top  of  the  down,  his  face 
strange  and  old.  To  him,  up  here  in  the  silence  of  the 
hills,  the  world  seems  very  old  and  dark.  Tragedy  has 
taken  hold  on  him  and  spoken  to  him — drawn  him  on  one 
side  as  it  were,  with  words  which  beat  like  the  echo  of  a 
dirge  through  the  man's  stricken  brain.  Four  words  that 
hold  scarce  a  meaning  for  him  now — he  stares  dully  in 
front  of  him  as  if  the  horror  which  they  held  for  him 
had  lost  its  power  to  wound  him  any  more.  He  sits 
down  on  the  short  turf,  and  for  an  hour  gazes  thus  at  a 
light  shining  down  there  in  the  darkness  below. 

The  sound  of  a  sheep  bell  drifts  past  him  on  the 
night, — a  beautiful  sound,  softly  sweet  and  clear.  Of 
a  sudden  his  head  droops,  and  the  tears  stream  through 
his  hands  as  he  buries  his  face  in  them. 

Her  spine  is  broken!     Her  spine  is  broken! 

The  specialist  from  London  has  examined  the  un- 
conscious woman,  given  his  verdict  to  the  wretched  man, 
his  instructions  to  the  nurses,  and  is  now  down  there  in 
the  quiet  by  her  bedside,  watching  in  that  passionless 
way  which  had  chilled  James  Burkett  to  the  bone,  and 
at  last  had  driven  him  out  to  escape  from  everything 
which  emphasizes  the  dreadful,  fatal  words. 

Escape?  There  is  no  escape  from  them,  and  he  rises, 
and,  with  unsteady  feet,  goes  blindly  down  the  rough  and 
slippery  way  toward  the  village.  Once  he  clings  to  a 
telegraph  pole  like  a  man  drunk  and  stupid.  Midnight 
shivers  from  the  old  church  tower  on  the  opposite  hill- 
side, and  the  sound  of  the  clock  striking  sounds  to  the 
man  like  a  passing-bell. 

Her  spine  is  broken!     There  is  no  hope.     She  may 


566  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

live  for  a  little  while,  but — her  spine  is  broken!  In  a 
vague,  incoherent  fashion  his  lips  frame  the  fragment 
of  a  prayer.  Then  the  words  again.  Her  spine  is 
broken ! 

The  poison  of  calumny  has  done  its  work;  and  Phoebe 
is  avenged. 

Half  way  down  this  quiet  borstall,  under  a  peaceful, 
windless  night,  a  strange  crackling  laugh  loses  itself  in 
the  darkness  and  silence  of  the  hills,  as  the  man's  self- 
control  goes  from  him  utterly.  He  staggers  as  his  foot 
strikes  a  stone,  and  he  falls  face  downward  on  the  turf. 
Oaths,  blasphemy,  obscenity  follow — all  mixed  up  in  one 
ghastly  medley  of  execration,  as  he  curses  Phoebe,  God, 
himself,  Mervyn,  everything. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

AT  SUNDOWN  IN  SUSSEX 

THE  glass  doors  faced  south-west;  and  to  the  east- 
ward, above  the  green  shapes  of  the  hills,  the  sky  shone 
in  its  ineffable  purity  of  stainless  blue  through  the  golden 
evening  air.  There  were  two  or  three  old  yews  along 
the  garden  wall,  and  in  one  of  them  a  thrush  was  sing- 
ing. The  glass  doors  were  wide  open,  and  every  note 
came  clearly  into  the  room  where  lay  the  woman  in  bed, 
whose  eyes  were  always  closed,  and  who  hardly  seemed 
to  breathe. 

A  nurse  stood  by  the  glass  doors.  She  was  wonder- 
ing how  long  the  woman  would  lie  there  thus,  and  how 
long,  therefore,  her  present  case  would  last.  She  was 
well  paid;  and  her  patient,  poor  soul,  gave  her  no  trouble. 
She  was  an  elderly  woman,  the  nurse,  with  a  tired  face ; 
and  the  peace  of  the  countryside  soothed  her. 

It  was  a  glorious  evening — the  west  ablaze  with 
golden  light.  She  stood  watching  the  slowly  lengthening 
shadows  creeping  across  the  downs,  and  from  the  old 
church  tower,  with  its  background  of  yew  trees,  above 
the  end  of  the  village.  After  a  while,  she  turned  to  the 
woman  in  bed,  and  studied  at  close  hand  her  white  face, 
on  which  the  golden  light  was  now  resting.  Then  she 
went  out  of  the  room.  She  had  been  gone  some  quarter 
of  an  hour,  when  something  happened  in  the  room,  whose 
quiet,  since  she  left,  had  been  disturbed  only  by  the  clock 
within  it  and  the  thrush  without.  The  bedclothes  moved 
perceptibly.  The  woman  whose  eyes  were  always  closed 
had  opened  them  at  last. 

She  opened  them  on  the  square  of  golden  light  that 

367 


368  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

filled  the  doorway.  At  first  her  gaze  was  meaningless, 
that  stared  out  at  the  splendor  on  the  western  world. 
For  some  minutes  her  white  face  was  as  quiet  as  were 
her  eyes.  Then,  like  a  shadow  creeping  into  it,  the  sense 
of  things  came  to  her;  and  her  eyes  rested  intelligently 
on  the  old  church  tower.  Like  a  shadow  the  remnants 
of  warm,  loving  womanhood  rose  under  the  white  skin, 
rose  as  it  were  in  piteous  revolt  against  its  dreadful 
doom,  its  ghastly  ending  and  slow  wait  for  death.  Her 
face  worked  horribly:  tears  blinded  her:  her  appearance 
became  an  awful  thing  in  its  utter  abandonment  and 
despair.  She  needed  not  to  be  told;  she  knew  the  thing 
that  was  come  to  her — that  held  her  there  while  she  died. 
At  last,  as  if  relenting,  pain,  physical  and  excruciating, 
shuddered  through  her;  and  rebellion  passed  and  left  a 
resignation  whose  hope  of  liberty  and  peace  was  waiting 
for  her — up  there,  on  the  down,  where  that  long  shadow 
started  from  the  perpetual  twilight  of  the  trees. 

She  lay  watching  the  light  go  off  the  hills,  and  listen- 
ing now  to  the  thrush  singing  outside  in  the  garden..  The 
joy  of  life  was  in  the  bird's  song — the  joy  of  a  life  which 
she  would  never  know  again.  Presently  it  ceased,  and 
then  commenced  again  from  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
A  blackbird  answered,  and  the  room  echoed, — then 
silence.  The  cessation  of  the  music  hurt  her  vaguely, 
and  her  mind  seized  upon  the  only  sound — the  slow 
ticking  of  the  bedroom  clock — as  if  to  fit  a  meaning  to 
its  ticks.  Too  late !  Too  late !  Too  late !  it  seemed  to 
her  to  say — mocking  the  happiness  of  the  bird's  song. 
She  looked  out  and  saw  nothing  but  the  shadows,  and 
closed  her  eyes  again.  She  would  not  look  at  the 
shadows,  thev  spoilt  the  golden  light.  Too  late!  Too 
late!  .  .  .  She  felt  drowsy,  and  dozed  off  into  a  half- 
sleep. 

Suddenly,  from  the  dark  shelves  of  the  yew  tree's 
foliage  just  outside  the  window,  like  water  rippling  from 
the  mossy  ledges  of  a  cave,  a  nightingale  poured  forth 
his  stream  of  melody;  and  she  awoke  and  stared  through 
the  tears  which  started  to  her  eyes. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  369 

It  was  getting  quite  dusk  .  .  .  She  was  a  child  again, 
who  had  tried  to  reach  a  thrush  singing  in  an  old  yew, 
and  the  thrush  had  changed  into  a  nightingale  ...  A 
child  who  had  watched  a  big  red  sun  slip  down  behind 
a  hill,  and  she  had  followed  it,  wondering,  until  it  grew 
dark  and  she  had  been  lost  for  ever  so  long  .  .  . 

The  song  seemed  to  be  coming  from  a  great  way  off ; 
and  presently  she  heard  another  sound — the  song  of  the 
hounds  in  their  kennels  at  Barleythorpe  .  .  .  She  had 
followed  the  sun,  and  the  hounds  .  .  .  she  would  follow 
the  bird!  After  thousands  of  years  it  was  still  lamenting 
for  the  child  Itylus — the  old  legend  flickered  through  her 
brain. 

"The  small  slain  body,  the  flower-like  face." 

The  words  came  to  her  through  the  far-off  song. 
Her  eyes  were  open  very  wide,  and  she  listened.  The 
child?  Her  child.  Jim's.  The  old,  old  wonder,  which 
draws  the  woman's  thoughts  to  the  man  who  has  made 
her  a  mother,  stirred  through  her  now  .  .  . 

It  must  be  getting  very  late  ...  It  was  quite  dark 
.  .  .  Where  was  Mervyn?  Where  was  Jim?  Perhaps 
Jim  had  gone  to  look  for  the  child?  ...  It  was  out 
there  in  the  dusk,  somewhere,  calling  .  .  .  calling  with 
its  baby  voice  .  .  .  She  would  follow,  and  find  the 
child  .  .  .  follow  .  .  .  follow  ...  on  Thracian  Sea 
.  .  .  follow  until  she  found  .  .  . 

She  shivered.  It  was  very  cold,  and  the  pain  in  her 
side  hurt  her. 

"Mervyn!" 

She  gasped — once,  twice  .  .  .  Her  head,  which  she 
had  raised  slightly  as  she  listened,  fell  back. 

Helen  Burkett  followed  her  child. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

ARGYNNIS   PAPHIA,   AND  A   "BUMBLE   BUSH" 

BEHIND  the  farm  where  he  lived — at  the  back  of  the 
dairy — was  a  patch  of  lush  grass  speckled  with  the  dan- 
delion's golden  stars.  Beyond  the  grass  was  a  line  of 
elder  trees — white  and  sweet  with  their  masses  of  bloom. 

They  marked  what  was,  to  him,  a  deep  ravine, 
through  which  ran  a  narrow  path  worn  by  the  passing 
of  human  feet.  In  this  ravine  grew  a  dense  green  forest 
of  nettles  and  the  pale  spreading  umbels  of  cow-parsley. 
It  was  a  perilous  path  for  baby  feet,  its  descent  and 
opposite  ascent  being  worn  smooth  and  hard,  with  pol- 
ished gravel  stones  sticking  up  in  places.  All  sorts  of 
strange  creatures  lived  among  the  nettle  and  cow-parsley 
forest.  Bears  there  were — woolly  ones — which  some- 
times emerged  with  a  rapid,  sinuous  gait,  halted  a  mo- 
ment on  the  sun-warm  path,  and  then  resumed  their 
noiseless  way  into  the  green  depths  on  the  other  side. 

Once,  as  he  slipped  down  into  the  bottom,  a  soft 
brown  and  yellow  thing  had  moved  among  the  nettles 
at  his  side.  His  hand  had  seized  it — in  the  wonder  and 
joy  of  the  moment  forgetting  the  stings  that  turned  into 
little  white  blisters.  It  had  commenced  to  run,  as  the 
mice  ran  in  the  great  barn,  but  no  mouse  had  ever  looked 
like  this  thing  looked  just  before  his  hand  closed  upon 
it.  For  its  brown  and  yellow  back  had  opened  like  a 
fan,  and  below  shone  a  scarlet  brighter  than  Mummy's 
flowers  in  the  pots  by  the  front  porch,  and  on  the  scarlet 
were  great  spots  of  black  and  darkest  blue.  He  had 
cried  out  with  delight  and  wonder  and  nettle  stings,  and 
hugged  it  to  his  breast,  and  it  had  fluttered  and  fright- 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  371 

ened  him  so  that  he  dropped  it;  and  behold!  his  little 
blue  frock  and  tiny  hands  were  smeared  with  brown  and 
yellow  and  blue  and  scarlet-colored  dust  like  flour:  and 
the  tiger  moth,  largely  the  worse  for  his  caresses,  scuttled 
off  into  the  heart  of  the  forest  on  her  trembling  damaged 
plumes.  Once,  too,  a  great  fierce  wild  animal  had  glided 
past  him  as  he  descended,  and  he  had  scrambled  up  again 
hurriedly  and,  with  frightened  unsteady  feet,  had  rushed 
back  through  the  dandelions  to  the  dairy,  calling 
"Yat-mummy!" — the  name  of  the  dreadful  creature — at 
the  top  of  his  voice;  and  Jack,  the  fox  terrier,  had  been 
forthwith  dispatched  on  the  track  of  the  fearsome  thing. 
He  had  never  forgotten  the  day  when,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  short  life,  he  had  climbed  the  opposite  side 
of  the  ravine  and  looked  over  the  other  side  into  a  new 
and  unknown  world.  Beyond,  in  the  shade  of  the  elder 
trees,  stretched  more  lush  grass  and  dandelions,  until 
the  grass  gradually  grew  shorter  and,  further  on,  left 
off  altogether  in  what  the  farmer  considered  a  bit  of 
"bad  land."  Baby  thought  differently.  As  far  as  his 
eyes  could  see  was  a  wonderful  wall  of  purple  thistles 
more  than  twice  his  own  height,  and  on  and  above  the 
thistles  was  such  a  sight  as  made  his  little  heart  almost 
cease  and  then  beat  wildly  with  excitement  as  he  drew 
toward  them — his  brown  eyes  and  ruddy  lips  wide  open 
in  surprise.  Everywhere  were  fluttering  things  of  white 
and  red  and  brown  and  orange  and  blue  that  hovered 
above  the  flowers  or  sat  upon  them,  basking  in  the  sun, 
and  opening  and  shutting  their  wings.  They  were  fairies, 
Mummy  had  told  him,  though  they  were  not  like  the 
fairies  in  the  book  she  had  given  him,  except  for  their 
wings.  But  there  were  different  kinds  of  fairies,  he 
supposed — as  Pompey  and  Mary,  the  mastiffs,  were  dif- 
ferent from  Jack.  And  on  that  day  in  which  he  had 
first  reached  the  thistle  wall  he  had  seen  the  queen  of 
them  all.  She  was  larger  and  different  from  the  others. 
Her  wings,  when  she  shut  them  over  her  head,  were  cov- 
ered with  little  silver  moons,  like  the  moon  in  the  sky 
before  it  grew  big  and  round.  She  did  not  sit  on  the 


372  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

thistles,  but  on  a  solitary  bramble  bush  which  grew 
among  them.  Her  real  name  was  Paphia — she  was 
named  after  Venus.  He  knew  nothing  of  that  lady 
(though  he  knew  a  red  and  white  Venus  who  came  and 
"mooed!"  for  Mummy  every  day,  and  Mummy  would 
take  him  and  show  him  the  warm  milk  he  liked  so  much 
come  streaming  and  frothing  out  of  the  red-and-white 
one's  udder  into  the  pail).  He  was  always  to  have  his 
milk  from  Venus  (Mummy  said  so).  As  for  the  butter- 
fly, he  called  her  uFae-ey  Keen,"  and  when  she  suddenly 
leapt  into  the  air  on  her  silver  wings — when  he  called 
out  her  name — and  rose  higher  and  higher  until  she  faded 
away  into  the  blue  sky,  he  sat  down  to  think,  and  wait  to 
see  if  she  would  come  back.  She  did  not ;  and  he  began 
to  cry.  He  must  not  go  close  to  her,  he  supposed,  though 
the  other  fairies  did  not  seem  to  mind  it — they  even  flut- 
tered about  his  brown  face  and  little  white  hat,  until  he 
grew  angry  with  some  of  them,  and  then  threw  his  hat 
at  a  big  ugly  one,  and  forgot  his  tears  and  laughed  as 
they  all  rose  up  like  a  cloud  and  then  settled  down  again 
to  their  flutterings  among  the  thistles. 

He  did  not  forget  his  "Fae-ey  Keen,"  however.  He 
told  his  Mummy  when  he  got  home;  and  Mummy  had 
told  him  that  it  was  her  right  enough;  and  he  dreamed 
of  her  when  he  went  to  sleep.  And  in  his  dreams  she 
grew  so  large  and  so  bright,  and  her  wings  made  such 
a  noise,  that  she  woke  him  up,  and  he  found  the  sun 
was  shining  on  his  face  as  the  wind  flapped  the  window 
blind  to  and  fro. 

He  had  been  to  the  thistles  many  times  since  then. 
He  would  sit  there  and  watch  and  call  for  her,  but  she 
never  came.  Once  he  had  sat  there  until  he  went  to 
sleep,  and  he  dreamed  that  she  came  and  settled  on  his 
face  and  kissed  him — quietly  and  softly  as  Mummy  came 
and  kissed  him  every  night,  when  she  thought  he  was 
gone  to  sleep  but  he  wasn't — but  it  was  only  old  Pom- 
pey's  tongue  licking  him. 

Perhaps  to-day,  as  the  sun  was  shining  so  warm  and 
bright,  she  would  be  there,  and  he  scrambled  through 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  373 

the  ravine  where  the  nettle  forest  grew — it  did  not  seem 
anything  like  so  deep  as  it  used  to  be,  and  the  nettles 
seemed  to  be  growing  shorter  every  day — and  hurried 
on  to  the  thistles. 

His  eyes  grew  brighter  and  brighter,  and  bigger  and 
bigger,  when  he  saw  the  bramble  bush. 

"Fae-eyKeen!     Goo!" 

Then,  remembering  that  she  did  not  like  him  to  talk 
to  her,  he  slipped  down  on  the  ground  and  sat  silent, 
throbbing  with  delight 

She  had  come  back! 

She  sat  fanning  her  wings  with  the  moons  on  them, 
then  fluttered  a  little  way  along  the  branch,  and  he 
scarcely  dared  to  breathe. 

Presently  he  began  to  think  he  might  creep  a  little 
closer,  and  he  commenced  to  crawl  along  on  his  hands 
and  knees. 

She  fluttered  a  little  way  from  him,  and  he  lost 
sight  of  her.  That  was  too  much  for  him.  A  wild 
desire  to  rush  after  her  and  touch  her  seized  him,  and 
he  sprang  up  just  in  time  to  see  her  dart  away 
through  the  sunshine  and  disappear  as  she  had  done 
before. 

He  sat  down  again — suddenly:  his  round  eyes  shut 
themselves  up  once  or  twice  and  then  looked  very  solemn- 
ly at  his  little  brown  leg  above  his  sock,  where  a  thin  red 
line  began  to  break  out  into  tiny  bright  beads  of  blood. 
Fae-ey  Keen  was  well  protected  when  she  sat  on  her 
bramble  throne,  and  her  trusty  bodyguard  punished  dar- 
ing little  boys  who  ventured  too  near  their  sovereign 
lady. 

His  eyes  and  face  screwed  themselves  up  and  his 
mouth  opened  very  wide.  He  commenced  to  howl 
steadily. 

A  voice  called:  "Baby!  Baby!  My  precious!  Mum- 
my's coming!" 

He  listened  a  moment.  His  "Boo-hoos"  grew  dis- 
tinctly louder. 

Footsteps  sounded  on  the  path  through  the  ditch;  a 


374  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

woman's  shadow  fell  over  him :  the  next  minute,  Mummy 
had  gathered  him  into  her  lap  and  was  dabbing  the  in- 
jured leg  with  her  kisses  and  handkerchief. 

She  looked  a  very  pretty  young  woman,  as  she  rushed 
round  the  corner  of  the  dairy  and,  with  frightened,  gray- 
blue  eyes  searched  the  waste  land  on  the  other  side  of  the 
elder  trees.  She  was  dressed  in  a  blue  cotton  frock,  with 
a  white  sun-bonnet  above  her  sun-browned  face. 

As  she  carried  her  darling  slowly  back — wiping  the 
tears  from  his  cheeks  and  listening  to  a  tale  of  woe  in 
which  "Fae-ey  Keen"  and  a  "bumble  bush"  had  proved 
his  undoing — with  her  soft,  bright  eyes  and  a  rosy  flush 
in  her  face,  she  had  ceased  to  be  a  very  pretty  young 
woman  and  had  become  a  very  beautiful  one. 

At  least  one  man  would  have  thought  so,  had  he  seen 
her,  but  he  was  a  hundred  miles  away. 

They  reached  the  shade  of  the  trees,  and  she  sat 
down  and  examined  the  scratch  again  for  any  prickles 
which  might  have  remained.  Presently  she  began  to 
sing,  and  he  liked  to  hear  Mummy  singing,  and  listened, 
chuckling. 

"There  was  a  man  so  wondrous  wise, 
He  jumped  into  a  bumble  bush     .     .     .     M 

Here  the  chuckles  moderated  considerably. 
"And  scratched  out  both  his  eyes.     .     .     .     ' 

Here  the  chuckles  ceased  entirely. 

"And  when  he  found  his  eyes  were  out, 
With  all  his  might  and  main, 
He  jumped  into  another  bush 
And     .     .     . 

scratched  'em  in  again!" 

Here  the  chuckles  commenced  again  and  swelled  into 
shouts  of  childish  glee. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  375 

There  was,  perhaps,  a  hidden  meaning — a  moral — 
contained  in  the  burden  of  her  song. 

One  man,  at  least,  might  have  discovered  it,  had  he 
heard  her  singing,  but  he  was  a  hundred  miles  away. 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

MERVYN  INGESTRE  TAKES  THE   HILL  WAY 

FOR  a  year  after  Helen's  death  Mervyn  Ingestre  had 
labored  unceasingly  among  his  chosen  people. 

The  bond  of  their  common  sorrow  had  drawn  James 
Burkett  and  himself  closer  together,  and  they  had  become 
firm  friends.  Together,  on  the  anniversary  of  her  death, 
they  had  made  a  pilgrimage  to  her  resting  place  in  the 
little  Sussex  churchyard. 

When  he  had  heard  the  news  of  her  accident,  his 
grief  was  too  great  to  find  an  outlet  through  the  ordinary 
channels  of  emotion.  His  heart  had  suffered,  physically, 
by  the  shock,  to  an  extent  from  which  he  knew  it  would 
never  recover.  He  had  remained  like  one  who  fears  to 
live — refusing  food,  light,  everything,  for  days.  When 
death  had  taken  her,  the  need  to  look  his  last  on  her  face, 
to  follow  her  to  her  grave,  roused  him.  He  had  cursed 
himself  as  the  cause  of  this  awful  thing — curses  alter- 
nated with  prayer  to  the  God  he  had  forsaken  to  spare 
her  pain  and  punish  him. 

Her  husband  had  met  him  with  the  dull  red  eyes  of 
drink  and  grief  and  spiritual  disaster — a  man  gone  sullen 
in  his  despair,  dangerous  to  himself  and  men  about  him. 
When  Mervyn  asked  the  other  for  permission  to  see  her, 
as  she  lay  waiting,  in  the  last  clothes  she  would  ever 
wear,  for  that  last  journey  up  that  quiet  hillside,  James 
had  motioned  him  toward  the  room,  with,  "Yes,  go  in — 
go  to  the  Hell  you've  helped  me  to,  Ingestre!  It's  all 
one  now,  man." 

While  he  knelt  by  the  open  coffin,  James  came  to  him 

376 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  377 

and  said,  "Well,  between  us  we've  killed  her.  I'm  past 
feeling  anything  more  now.  I " 

Mervyn  Ingestre  rose  from  his  knees.  The  anguish 
on  his  face  touched  even  her  husband,  worn  out  as  he 
was.  The  latter  held  out  his  hand,  and  the  two  men  ex- 
changed the  clasp  of  friendship  over  the  white  silence  of 
the  woman  they  had  both  loved  according  to  their  differ- 
ent natures.  In  that  handclasp  Mervyn  knew  how  much 
the  other  had  need  of  him. 

James  had  started  drinking,  had  been  as  near  to  going 
to  the  dogs  as  is  good  or  bad  for  any  man :  but  gradually 
the  larger,  saner  ideals  of  the  stronger  mind  had  exerted 
their  influence  for  good,  and  James  Burkett  pulled  him- 
self together.  A  husband's  natural  feelings  had,  at  first, 
made  him  reject  Mervyn's  efforts  at  friendship,  even 
while  he  felt  the  need  of  a  friend.  But,  as  he  grew 
to  know  and  appreciate  the  inherent  nobility  of  the 
curate,  as  he  still  considered  him,  he  turned  to  him  for 
comfort  instinctively,  and  the  evil  things  which  were 
closing  in  upon  him  were  beaten  off. 

The  wretched  woman  who  had  started  the  scandal 
had  had  her  revenge,  and  the  fruits  of  her  vengeance  had 
been  exceeding  bitter  to  her  taste.  The  first  time  she 
had  seen  James  Burkett  after  his  wife's  fatal  accident  she 
had  read  the  drink  in  his  eyes  as  a  curse,  when  he  pushed 
past  her  without  a  word.  She  had  begun  to  love  him  in 
desperate  earnest — the  Rev.  Eustice  being  a  harmless, 
finicking  man  who  soon  palled,  to  his  wife.  She  was  not 
a  bad  woman  or  a  great  one.  She  would  have  kissed 
James  Burkett's  hand  had  he  struck  her  down :  his  hatred 
would  have  killed  her  morally,  but  for  the  intervention, 
unknown  to  her,  on  her  behalf  by  Mervyn  Ingestre  with 
the  bereaved  husband. 

A  year  had  done  much  to  soften  James  Burkett's  grief, 
as  he  stood  with  Mervyn  Ingestre  beside  his  dead  wife's 
grave.  A  typical  downland  yew  touched  the  headstone 
with  its  shade ;  violets  grew  thickly  upon  the  grass  inside 
the  marble  framework  of  her  tomb.  The  song-thrush 


378  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

and  the  missel-bird  sang  there  through  all  their  seasons 
of  singing-time,  in  that  ground  of  sleep,  where  Time 
seemed  soft  and  slow,  and  gentle  with  his  hands,  on 
church  and  trees  and  tombs. 

For  a  year,  as  I  have  said,  Mervyn  had  labored — not 
to  forget,  but  that  he  might  do  something  in  the  world 
which  it  pleased  him  to  think  she  might  have  liked  him  to  \ 
do.  He  purchased  the  cottage  wherein  her  life  had 
closed — using  it  as  a  convalescent  home  for  his  "par- 
ishioners," and  repairing  there  frequently  for  a  pilgrim- 
age to  her  grave. 

Then  he  paid  the  price  of  his  altruistic  efforts.  His 
weak  heart  was  weakening;  and  after  the  second  attack 
he  determined  to  hear  the  worst, — and  heard  it,  un- 
flinchingly. The  next  might — probably  would — prove 
his  last. 

For  which  reason,  Mervyn  Ingestre  set  his  house  in 
order,  appointed  William  Ridley  as  one  of  his  executors, 
and  made  a  will,  in  which  he  left  half  of  his  property  to 
him  in  trust  for  The  Regenerators.  On  the  day  he  heard 
the  news  from  the  doctor — and  which  he  knew  was  prac- 
tically his  death  sentence — he  went  to  Sturrington  and 
made  arrangements  for  his  own  burial  beside  her,  and 
spent  an  hour  by  her  grave  communing  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  did  William  Ridley  and  his  friends  attempt  to 
persuade  him  to  give  up  his  work :  he  toiled  on  with  in- 
domitable heroism  through  failing  health  and  strength — 
nursing  himself,  but  only  so  much  that  he  might  last  out 
his  days  for  active  service.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  at  times 
he  yearned  for  sleep  beside  the  grave  in  Sturrington 
churchyard. 

One  sweltering  June  night  in  the  year  following  her 
death,  as  he  returned  from  a  search  through  the  slums  of 
Pimlico  after  one  of  his  people,  he  read  the  message  on 
the  wall  of  Victoria  station.  He  had  but  recently  come 
through  a  bad  bout  of  influenza.  A  drop  of  brandy 
pulled  him  round,  and  the  momentary  faintness  passed. 
He  purchased  a  small  bottle  of  the  spirit  against  a  re- 
currence of  the  trouble ;  then  he  took  his  seat  in  the  last 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  379 

train  for  Pedbury  Road,  the  nearest  station  to  Sturring- 
ton,  and  closed  his  eyes  and  rested  himself  from  his 
labors. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  got  out  and  commenced 
his  walk  through  the  hills.  He  decided  to  walk — his 
bodily  weariness  had  passed  after  his  long  rest  in  the 
train,  and  a  curious  sense  of  exaltation  buoyed  him  up 
as  he  left  the  little  station  and  felt  the  mysterious  pres- 
ence of  the  hills  coming  to  meet  him.  There  was  a  half 
moon  and  the  sky  was  full  of  stars.  Out  here  the  air, 
after  London,  seemed  powerfully  sweet  and  pure,  and  at 
times  he  rested  beside  the  dim  scars  of  the  track,  and 
drank  in  the  freshness  of  the  night.  He  would  like  to 
rest  here  at  the  last,  among  the  silences  of  the  great  hills 
— here  where  the  night  wind  as  it  moved  softly  through 
the  beech  and  yew  and  hawthorn  seemed  to  whisper  to 
him  of  the  dead  woman. 

At  length,  after  he  had  covered  some  two  miles,  the 
track  dipped  down  into  a  vast  hollow,  dark  with  yew  and 
juniper  bushes,  climbed  the  opposite  down,  and  from 
thence  gradually  descended  to  Sturrington  church.  He 
had  frequently  been  that  way  in  the  day  time,  and  knew 
the  actual  depth  and  width  of  the  valley  before  him:  at 
night  it  appeared  as  a  great  stream  of  darkness,  on  which 
the  moonlight  hung  like  a  silver  mist,  winding  among  the 
hills.  The  descent  was  rough  and  dangerous  in  the  dark: 
in  the  bottom,  under  the  trees,  the  gloom  was  so  intense 
that  he  was  compelled  to  strike  most  of  a  box  of  matches 
before  he  found  his  way  through — the  track  losing  itself 
in  ruts  and  chalky  gullies  cut  by  the  rains. 

The  steepness  of  the  ascent  tried  him  severely.  He 
was  compelled  to  rest  several  times,  and  more  than  once 
he  had  recourse  to  the  brandy.  At  last  he  was  over  the 
top,  and  a  great  wave  of  fresh  air  revived  him.  The 
night  was  thinning  over  the  eastern  downs,  and  dawn, 
with  its  strange  workings  in  the  sky,  would  soon  begin. 
Half  a  mile,  and  he  would  be  beside  her,  and  after  that 
he  did  not  greatly  care.  He  could  see  the  dim  outlines  of 
the  clump  of  yews  and  of  the  church  tower  above  them. 


3 8o  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

An  owl -was  sending,  from  somewhere  in  that  patch  of 
shadow,  slow  hoots  that  reached  him  plainly  across  the 
open  ground. 

The  next  minute  he  sank  on  his  knees  in  the  soft  thick 
turf.  A  dreadful  pain  in  his  side  doubled  him  up  and 
he  lay  gasping.  His  courage  deserted  him,  and  in  its 
place  came  the  fear  that  he  would  not  reach  his  goal — 
making  him  cry  out  between  his  gasps — with  more  than 
the  fear  of  death.  He  bit  desperately  at  the  cork  of  the 
small  bottle  in  which  strength  for  his  last  effort  lay :  his 
teeth  chattered,  and  to  the  northward  the  great  stars 
whirled  madly  before  his  failing  eyes. 

"My  lady  Helen!  .  .  .  help  me  ...  for 
Christ's  .  .  ." 

His  senses  were  leaving  him — he  could  not  reach  her! 
Then  his  terror  lent  strength  and  purpose  to  his  trem- 
bling hands. 

"Christ  help  me  .  .  .  for  her  sake!" 

At  last  he  had  got  the  cork  out  of  the  bottle,  and 
he  gulped  down  the  remainder  of  the  brandy. 

He  gasped  with  the  pain,  but  he  was  on  his  feet  once 
more — a  ghastly  grin  on  his  distorted  face.  Two  steps, 
three,  four  ...  he  would  have  to  make  some  hundreds 
yet.  The  distance  mocked  him  hideously — such  a  little 
way  .  .  .  He  set  his  teeth  .  .  .  The  stars  went  out,  and 
he  fell  senseless. 

The  minutes  passed,  and  he  stirred  and  rolled  over  on 
his  back.  His  eyes  opened :  above  him  the  stars  described 
narrower  and  narrower  circles  and  finally  came  to  rest. 
He  lay  quiescent,  wondering  if  he  was  in  the  land  of  the 
living — everything  was  so  profoundly  still.  Even  the 
wind's  tiny  voices  in  the  heath  bells  and  among  the  great 
flowered  spikes  of  viper's  bugloss,  scattered  about  the 
down  around  him,  seemed  hushed.  He  spoke  and  listened 
to  her  name:  "Helen."  It  was  scarce  above  a  whisper, 
and  he  repeated  it  louder.  He  was  alive  ...  he  might 
reach  her  yet  ...  he  would  reach  her !  It  was  deathly 
cold;  and  when  he  raised  his  hand  to  his  head  his  fore- 
head felt  like  ice  and  wet  The  action,  slight  as  it  was, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  381 

was  an  effort,  and  he  moaned.  The  pain  had  gone  .  .  . 
only  a  great  weakness  that  maddened  him  lest  it  would 
never  pass.  Presently  peace  came  into  his  face,  and  he 
lay  as  if  listening.  His  lips  moved,  and  the  last  lines  of 
the  poet  dying  came  from  them  to  an  audience  of  the  quiet 
stars  and  hills  and  the  quieter  woman,  who  had  inspired 
them,  sleeping  a  few  hundred  yards  away  in  her  sepulcher 
within  the  chalk. 


"Dear,  is  it  Death  who  calls  me  with  your  voice? 
I  seem  to  hear  you  calling,  far  away — 
As  mothers  call  tired  children  home  at  night. 
And  I  am  tired — more  than  the  way  of  men 
Weary,  with  weight  of  my  desire  to  share 
Peace  with  you,  more  than  in  the  ways  of  men 
I  may  find  peace,  where  peace  is  none  for  me.     .     .     . 

Beyond  the  waves  of  pain  that  drowned  you,  dear — 
Oh,  love  of  mine !  is  there  a  further  shore  ? 
Or  any  ford  across  his  stream  of  sleep, 
Where  Death  waits  watching? 

Yes,  I  hear  you  call! 

And  I  will  to  you !   If  such  ford  there  be — 
Oh,  love  of  mine ! — wait  for  me  by  the  tide !" 

He  got  up  on  to  his  feet,  and  moved  toward  the  dark 
patch  ahead.  He  went  cautiously,  as  one  who  suspects 
hidden  dangers  in  the  path — a  look  of  cunning  resting 
strangely  on  his  spiritual  face:  he  must  circumvent  the 
enemy  who  would  keep  him  from  her  .  .  .  Gradually  the 
distance  lessened,  and  at  last  he  had  reached  the  low  wall 
of  the  churchyard. 

He  knew  every  inch  of  the  ground  now,  and  it  was 
getting  lighter.  Through  the  mist  which  was  settling  on 
his  eyes  he  could  see  the  glimmer  of  white  marble  where 
she  lay.  His  feet  were  like  lead,  and  perforce  he  had 
to  go  round  by  the  gate — to  climb  the  wall  was  an  im- 
possible effort  for  him.  Along  the  wall,  in  places,  were 
brambles,  that  clutched  his  clothes.  The  ground  was  un- 


382  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

even,  hummocked  by  moles,  and  covered  by  long  grass 
and  nettles,  but  he  reached  the  gate  at  last. 

As  he  entered,  a  great  thankfulness  filled  him,  and  he 
moved  more  quickly  along  the  fine  shingle  of  the  path 
that  led  to  her  grave.  The  tombstones,  the  scattered 
mounds  of  the  dead,  seemed  friendly  things  that  waited 
there  with  welcome  for  him.  He  turned  the  corner  of 
the  church:  her  grave  was  as  white  fire  to  his  eyes:  for 
a  moment  he  saw  her  standing  before  him  in  the  Wimble- 
don woodland. 

His  foot  slipped  on  the  loose  path,  and  he  fell — a  few 
yards  from  her. 

"Helen!" 

He  called  to  her  passionately,  and  his  voice  leapt, 
startling  in  its  indescribable  yearning,  into  that  stillness 
which  comes  upon  the  earth,  sometimes,  just  before  the 
dawn.  His  heart  beat  madly  with  its  last  excitement :  in 
his  eyes  was  the  light  of  the  morning  and  a  great  triumph. 
He  crept  forward  through  the  loose  stones,  whispering. 

"My  lady!  I  have  come  .  .  .  Thank  God!  Oh  my 
dear!  my  love!  I  ..." 

His  head  bent  down  and  he  kissed  the  cold  marble. 

So  died  Mervyn  Ingestre. 

A  low  moon  floated  far  along  the  west — 

A  golden  sail  upon  the  early  blue 
Of  twilight — fading  slowly  from  the  breast 

Of  gulfs  in  skies  that  let  the  morning  through ; 
But  when  the  dawn  wind  woke,  more  swiftly  pressed, 

And  in  her  passing  ever  paler  grew 

Until  she  was  not ;  and  the  first  bird  sang — 
A  low  note,  lost  in  leaves  about  his  nest; 

Then,  till  the  air  that  hearkened  to  him  rang, 

He  cleft  with  song  the  shadows  as  he  flew. 

They  found  the  young  man  there,  some  hours  later. 
One  of  his  "parishioners" — a  broken  woman  who  had 
been  expected  to  live  decently  on  the  "one  and  tuppence" 
per  day  her  hands  could  earn;  and  who  had,  at  times,  so 
far  forgotten  decency  as  to  supplement  such  wages  by 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  383 

her  body's  at  night  (when  times  were  hard) — closed  his 
eyes,  without  so  much  as  a  suspicion  that  the  dead  man 
would  have  had  any  objection  to  her  so  doing.  She  did 
it  very  decently  and  reverently  and  tenderly.  She  actually 
cried  a  good  deal  as  she  did  it — and  she  had  not  touched 
a  drop  of  gin  for  a  month.  Perhaps  the  absence  of  any 
such  suspicion  in  her  was  not  entirely  due  to  her  igno- 
rance of  spiritual  things.  None  of  The  Regenerators, 
when  she  told  them,  had,  apparently,,  any  misgivings  on 
the  point:  William  Ridley  even  thanked  her. 

There  was  much  talk  of  it,  however,  when  it  reached, 
and  was  discussed  at  length  among,  the  better  educated 
and  wealthier  sections  of  Wimbledon  society  that  had 
known  the  dead  man.  It  was  spoken  of  as  a  rather  dread- 
ful thing,  whatever  there  might  have  been  between  him 
and  Helen  Burkett.  "The  woman  was  a  com-mon  pros- 
titute, my  dear!"  said  one  lady,  who  was  a  specialist  in 
adjectival  subtleties.  Her  formula  was  felt  to  contain 
at  once  a  tonic  and  a  sedative  for  respectability,  after 
the  shock  its  nerves  had  suffered  from  the  scandal,  and 
as  such  was  duly  appreciated.  The  common  people  were 
losing  their  Faith  fast,  and  look  what  it  led  to — strikes, 
and  all  this  labor  unrest,  and  disrespect  for  their  betters. 
No  doubt  Mervyn  Ingestre  meant  well,  but  the  ex- 
ample  !  He  had  been  a  deliberate  encouragement 

for  them  toward  irreligion,  and  this  had  been  the  end  of 
it.  And  his  mother,  poor  lady!  It  was  almost  a  mercy 
she  had  not  lived  to  know  it. 


CHAPTER   XLV 


JAMES  BURKETT  was  a  clever  man  where  racehorses 
were  concerned.  If  there  was  one  thing  he  was  clever 
at,  it  was  backing  them.  But  James  Burkett  was  a 
gambler — as  apart  from  a  speculator — and  success  with 
"the  gees"  eventually  made  him  sigh  for  other  worlds 
to  conquer;  and  James  Burkett  was  in  the  city.  From 
betting  to  Stock  Exchange  "speculation"  is  not  a  very  far 
cry.  "Burkett's  Luck"  in  the  square  mile  became  pro- 
verbial. 

The  years  went  on,  and  he  prospered  exceedingly. 
He  had  had  "facers,"  of  course,  but  he  generally  recov- 
ered from  them  quickly,  until  he  began  to  have  a  sublime 
faith  in  his  cleverness  and  his  luck.  At  one  time  he  be- 
came quite  a  rich  man. 

Then  the  tide  turned,  and  he  "ran  up  against  it"  with 
a  vengeance.  He  lost  steadily,  and  smiled  to  himself. 
It  would  soon  come  back  again.  But  instead  of  coming 
back  it  kept  on  "going  down"  with  a  most  irritating  per- 
sistence, and  James  began  to  get  angry,  and  lost  his  head. 
He  started  plunging,  and  one  day  found  that  he  had 
nearly  reached  the  end  of  his  tether.  It  was  not  a  pleas- 
ing prospect.  Indeed,  at  this  time  he  was  in  a  pretty  bad 
way.  His  life,  when  things  were  going  right,  was  a  good 
one  enough  for  a  man  of  his  tastes,  although,  as  the  years 
slipped  by,  his  round  of  pleasures  and  amusement  had 
lost  much  or  most  of  their  earlier  charm. 

He  was  already  infected  with  one  of  the  curses  of  his 
age — that  forerunner  of  decadence  which  is  a  want  of  en- 
thusiasm in  Life  itself,  for  itself.  Already  he  was  given 

384 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  385 

to  that  supremely  fatuous  occupation  of  the  so-called 
"worldly  wise" — killing  time.  He  had  (or  so  he  be- 
lieved) exhausted  the  pleasures  of  life.  Favored  with 
the  means,  as  few  are,  to  live  a  full  life — to  learn  of  the 
eternal  wonder  of  a  wonderful  world — he  was  often 
"bored  to  death."  He  had  heard  that  "The  Kingdom  of 
God  is  within  you"  as  he  had  heard  many  such  sayings — 
unhearing,  neither  would  he  understand.  The  "good 
things"  of  life  had  been  his  for  the  asking.  He  had 
known  a  great  sorrow,  but  Time  had  been  kind  to  him  and 
healed  the  wound;  and  he  chiefly  showed  his  gratitude  to 
the  healer  by  vain  attempts  to  slay  the  slayer  of  us  all. 
He  was  a  man,  and  therefore  not  without  the  imagination 
which  makes  man  different  from  the  mere  animal,  and 
without  which  nothing  great  or  good  was  ever  done  of 
man  yet;  and  that,  his  noblest  possession,  was  left  to 
atrophy  and  waste.  The  material  pleasures  which  had 
appealed  to  him  provided  his  punishment  for  the  neglect, 
and  still  James  Burkett,  man  of  the  world  (it  was  his 
boast  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  world)  pursued  his  course, 
wondering  why  it  was  the  world,  which  had  seemed  such 
an  inexhaustible  mine  of  good  things,  returned  so  little  of 
real  satisfaction  for  his  labors.  There  had  been  moments 
in  his  life  when  a  grim,  sarcastic  voice  had  asked  him  if 
he  was  not  a  damned  fool,  but  the  idea  seemed  so  gro- 
tesque that  he  put  it  down  to  liver  or  whiskey  or  both — 
men  of  the  world  were  not  fools!  He  rather  prided  him- 
self upon  his  contempt  for  spiritual  things — the  perver- 
sion which  is  the  heritage  of  such  contempt  resulting  in  a 
weird  collection  of  "wisdom"  as  his  outraged  mind 
aborted  from  lack  of  proper  nourishment. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  that  his  were  pseudo-ideals 
— monstrosities  begotten  by  Materialism  upon  itself,  to 
which  he  acted  foster-mother  until  he  had  spent  his 
mental  energies  upon  them,  when  they  departed,  and  left 
him  full  of  emptiness.  He  had  always  had  a  dislike  for 
thinking,  except  upon  material  things.  As  the  years  went 
on  he  sometimes  wondered  how  it  was  that  men,  with 
whom  he  was  brought  into  contact  from  time  to  time,  dis- 


386  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

pensed  with  what  was  becoming  a  necessity  to  him, 
namely,  a  ready  made  Time-killer  for  their  leisure  hours. 
He  "thought  the  matter  out  carefully,"  and  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  they  were  either  "dead  slow,"  or  "stupid 
asses,"  people  who  were  satisfied  with  a  humdrum  exist- 
ence, not  "live  men."  He  rather  pitied  himself  as  a  re- 
sult, and  was  inclined  to  think  he  was  thrown  away  upon 
the  world.  He  would  have  been  honestly  surprised  had 
anyone  implied  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  the  world 
being  thrown  away  upon  him. 

He  was  now  thirty-nine  and,  except  for  his  recent 
excesses  in  the  way  of  "liveners,"  a  healthy-living  man — 
physically — in  his  prime.  And  yet  .  .  .  Lately  he  had 
felt  that  there  was  a  good  deal  wanting  in  his  life.  He 
had  not  married  again — in  spite  of  the  strenuous  sympa- 
thy that  had  been  shown  to  him  by  the  mothers  and 
daughters  of  his  acquaintance,  and  the  earnest  efforts  that 
had  been  made  to  induce  him  to  change  his  condition. 

There  had  been  other  women,  certainly,  but !  One 

drank;  one  left  her  protector,  after  taking  away  with  her 
all  she  could  lay  hands  on. 

He  ought  to  have  married  again,  he  supposed,  but, 
somehow,  other  women  had  not  appealed  to  him,  as 
wives,  after  Helen.  And  now  he  was  feeling  too  unset- 
tled altogether  to  think  of  marrying.  He  was  not  a  for- 
tune hunter.  If  things  improved,  he  must  think  about  it 
seriously. 

One  afternoon  in  late  September,  as  he  rode  slowly 
home  from  the  Shooting  School  at  Worcester  Park,  where 
he  was  wont  to  keep  his  hand  in  at  clay  pigeons,  rabbits, 
and  such  strange  wild-fowl,  he  told  himself  that  he  had 
been  drinking  too  much  whiskey  lately;  or  rather  his 
practice  that  afternoon  had  told  him  as  much — some  of 
his  shots  being  worse  than  rotten.  His  nerves  must  be 
getting  into  a  pretty  bad  state.  He  wasn't  the  man  he 
was.  His  mind  wandered  back  through  the  years.  It 
was  now  more  than  thirteen  years  since  poor  old  Helen 
died.  He  thought  of  his  long  dead  wife,  and  the  tears 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  387 

came  into  his  eyes — he  was  feeling  rather  hipped.  He 
had  never  really  got  over  it,  and  .  .  .  Here  he  blew  his 
nose  hard  and  furtively  wiped  his  eyes.  Then  there  was 
that  last  crash,  when  he  dropped  it  so  heavily  in  Ameri- 
cans. After  that,  disgusted  with  everything  within  the 
metropolitan  area,  he  had  returned  entirely  to  his  old 
love  and  laid  a  thousand  to  eight  hundred  on  the  favorite 
for  the  Sellinger.  He  returned  from  Doncaster  that 
much  the  poorer,  and  decidedly  the  worse  for  liquor. 
No !  He  wasn't  the  man  he  was !  He  had  lost  much  of 
his  egotism,  and,  since  his  financial  disasters,  a  good  deal 
of  his  self-confidence. 

A  letter  was  awaiting  him  when  he  reached  "Down- 
lands" — whither  he  had  returned  a  year  or  two  after  his 
wife's  death — and  its  contents  were  destined  to  greatly 
affect  his  future  life.  The  writer  urged  him  strongly  to 
back  Laodice's  Love  for  the  coming  Cesarewitch,  for  all 
he  was  worth;  and,  after  reading  the  reasons  advanced 
why  he  should  do  so,  James  Burkett  sat  down  and  drank 
his  tea  thoughtfully. 

He  was  in  pretty  low  water — though,  thank  God,  not 
in  the  hands  of  the  Jews,  yet.  Twenty  to  one  he  could 
average,  no  doubt.  Five  hundred  at  that  rate  would 
mean  ten  thousand  if  it  came  off.  If  it  didn't — he  would 
never  bet  again  beyond  occasional  fivers,  and  as  for 
Stocks  and  Shares,  they  could  go  to  Hell,  for  him.  He'd 
"had  some"— lately! 

Mrs.  Burkett  watched  her  son's  face  carefully.  She 
had  altered  little  since  that  day  when  the  woman  lying 
in  that  Sussex  hillside  had  confessed  to  her  her  love  for 
that  other  man  sleeping  now  beside  her  in  their  endless 
calm.  She  had  striven,  as  only  a  mother  can,  to  help 
her  boy  bear  his  loss;  and  James  owed  more  to  her  than 
he  ever  realized,  in  the  dark  days  of  his  life  when  only 
she  and  dead  Mervyn  Ingestre  had  kept  him  from  going 
to  the  dogs.  Her  husband  entered  as  she  asked  him  if  it 
was  good  news  he  had  just  received,  and  the  talk  drifted 
to  Mr.  Bertram  Burkett's  coming  retirement  from  city 
life. 


388  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

James  was  to  continue  as  an  active  partner  in  the  firm, 
with  a  son  of  the  late  Mr.  Bowker  (now  some  years  de- 
ceased). The  responsibilities  of  the  position  were  a 
never-failing  topic  with  his  father,  and  he  was  soon  in- 
volved in  listening  to  the  great  merchant's  plans  for  de- 
veloping certain  markets — for  which  his  son  had  as  little 
aptitude  as  he  had  inclination.  By  now  he  loathed  the  city 
and  all  that  was  therein. 

Mr.  Burkett  senior  had  had  his  disappointments. 
His  earlier  hopes  of  civic  celebrity  had  long  since  gone, 
and  with  them  the  precious  manuscript.  The  tragedy  of 
his  son's  marriage  had  rather  frightened  the  pompous 
citizen — the  scandal  had  hurt  his  pride  more  than  it 
had  hurt  James' — and  he  had  since  viewed  the  rising  gen- 
eration of  women  with  doubtful  eyes.  Mr.  Burkett's 
ideal  woman  was  of  the  "submissively-receive-man's-hom- 
age-and-be-thankful"  type.  His  attitude  toward  them  was 
a  compound  of  Old  Nobility-and-shopwalker-courtesy— - 
which  attitude  afforded  him  a  vast  amount  of  satisfaction, 
inasmuch  as  in  their  acceptation  of  his  attentions  he  saw 
reflected  his  own  accomplishments  in  such  matters,  and  it 
pleased  his  vanity  hugely.  He  was  frequently  rude  to 
the  female  servants,  and  one  day  had  "damned"  a  poor 
old  woman  for  falling  against  him  in  a  fit,  as  he  left  the 
office.  But  he  was  getting  old  himself,  and  as,  with  in- 
creasing years,  his  watch  chain  got  further  away  from 
him — even  as  his  hopes  of  the  mayoral  chain  of  office 
receded — his  increasing  "chest"  measurements  and  vari- 
ous disappointments  made  him,  perhaps,  inclined,  like 
the  best  of  men  and  women,  to  be  irritable  at  times. 

James  listened  with  a  show  of  attention  to  his  father's 
flow  of  commercial  rhetoric,  from  whence  it  transpired 
that  the  orator  had  evolved  and  perfected  a  scheme 
promising  much  for  the  further  glorification  of  Burkett 
and  Bowker,  and  which  would  also  completely  take  the 
wind  out  of  the  sails  of  a  rival  house,  might  even  even- 
tually lead  to  the  latter  being  completely  stranded.  His 
thoughts,  were,  however,  far  away  on  a  distant  range  of 
hills,  where  Laodice's  Love,  a  four-year-old,  in  at  seven 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  389 

stone  seven,  had,  in  the  early  morning  on  the  previous 
day,  satisfactorily  answered  the  question  put  to  him  over 
the  full  Cesarewitch  distance — running  right  away  from 
Cheops  and  Sugarcandia,  his  stable  companions,  and  a 
stranger,  which  (the  writer  of  the  letter  stated)  was 
none  other  than  Bay  Actaeon. 

After  he  had  retired  to  bed  that  night  James  Burkett 
lay  for  hours  turning  that  and  other  matters  over  in  his 
mind.  Ere  he  fell  asleep  he  had  decided  to  have  £500  on 
Laodice's  Love — providing  certain  inquiries,  that  he  in- 
tended to  make  on  the  morrow,  satisfied  him. 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

"THE  RISING  SUN"  AT  BEERMINSTER 

"THE  RISING  SUN"  at  Beermmster  was  rapidly  be- 
coming impregnated  with  its  usual  Saturday  night  at- 
mosphere, and  the  cacophony  of  multitudinous  noise. 

The  "Public,"  the  "Private,"  the  "Saloon,"  were  all 
well  represented  by  their  regular  clientele:  the  swing 
doors  of  the  "Bottle  and  Jug"  flapped  with  almost 
rhythmical  emphasis.  In  the  "four-ale"  department  St. 
Saturday  had  already  entered  into  the  souls  of  his  votaries 
through  the  libatory  mediums  common  to  his  cult.  The 
nasal  shrillness  that  from  time  to  time  cleft  the  confusion 
of  the  Private  Bar  bespoke  the  presence  of  the  eternal 
feminine.  The  Saloon  echoed  with  increasing  frequency 
the  throaty  half  chuckle,  half  cough  of  Solly,  the  local 
bookmaker,  established  in  a  comfortable  armchair  in 
the  corner  of  the  bar,  behind  an  Aspidistra  plant  on  the 
table  before  him. 

It  was  the  first  Saturday  night  in  that  October,  and,  as 
such,  burgeoned  with  its  particular  crop  of  football  argu- 
ments and  racing  aphorisms  anent  the  coming  Cesare- 
witch,  the  prospects  of  the  various  league  teams  and 
players,  the  results  of  that  afternoon's  sport, — staple 
growths  of  the  pub-loving  Britisher's  brains  in  his  idle 
hours. 

The  great  god  Sport! — greatest  of  all  modern  gods 
save  Mammon — immanent  in  the  exalted  in  the  land  as  in 
the  lowest,  from  the  throne  to  the  gutter,  from  the  mon- 
arch to  the  wild  beasts  of  the  Boro'  and  Bethnal  Green. 
More  minds  on  every  Saturday  in  the  year  seek  him  than 
turn  Heavenward  on  the  Sunday:  he  claims  his  victims 

390 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  391 

from  "Nobility,"  gone  broke  racing,  to  the  over-zealous 
plebeian  athlete  of  path  and  river  and  ring.  In  every  pub- 
lic house  is  his  worship.  The  ancient  shape  of  Ely,  loom- 
ing across  the  fens,  sees  generations  of  his  pilgrims  in- 
vade Newmarket's  sweet-scented  uplands  to  the  temples 
of  the  god  standing  beside  the  bush-harrowed  verdure  of 
the  Rowley  Mile. 

Superior  people;  apostles  of  the  cult  of  The  Emi- 
nently Respectable;  imposing  and  almost  oppressively 
important  dignitaries  of  the  other  established  religion — 
of  Abnegation ;  Culture  with  a  capital  C ;  Dissent  with  a 
capital  D;  the  Philistine,  with  an  enormous  capital;  the 
poet,  without  any  capital  at  all;  have  all  been  known  to 
affect  a  fine  contempt  for  the  British  Sportsman  and  his 
ways — but  in  vain.  The  god  continues  to  flourish  exceed- 
ingly. The  stars  in  their  courses,  it  was  hinted,  nay, 
publicly  stated  in  the  Press,  fought  invincibly  for  the 
royal  house  of  England  on  Epsom's  famous  Downs,  when 
Minoru  and  Louviers  struggled  home  locked  together; 
the  head  victory  of  Edward  the  Seventh's  colors  was 
quoted  as  incontrovertible  proof  thereof. 

"The  Rising  Sun"  was  essentially  a  sporting  house. 
There  it  was  that  Duster  Durran  had  been  first  intro- 
duced to  a  certain  noble  lord  who  had  "put  it  up"  for  that 
afterwards  world-famous  celebrity  in  his  first  match  at 
the  N.  S.  C.  If  the  Duster's  visits  to  "The  Sun"  became 
fewer  and  fewer,  as  in  the  fullness  of  time  his  fame  as 
middle-weight  champion  of  the  world  increased,  the  fre- 
quenters of  that  hostelry  remained  loyal  to  his  memory. 
On  those  rare  occasions  when  he  forsook  the  irradiance  of 
the  Cafe  Royal  for  the  lesser  orb  of  his  humbler  days 
the  "Sun"  rose  in  more  senses  than  one  to  the  occasion. 
The  Duster  did  the  thing  in  style:  after  his  victory  in 
Kansas  City  over  Australian  Jimmy  Creek  (it  was  cur- 
rently reported  and  believed  that  the  Duster  had  thereby 
pocketed  ten  thousand  in  "red-hot")  Moet  and  Chandon 
had  flowed,  literally  in  streams,  through  every  bar  in  the 
house.  The  sports  of  the  neighborhood  who  resided  in 
the  more  outlying  districts  had  found  many  strange  rest- 


392  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

ing  places  ere  they  eventually  succeeded  in  reaching  their 
homes.  These  things  were  in  the  great  traditions  of  the 
house. 

On  this  particular  evening,  a  little  before  eight 
o'clock,  James  Burkett  entered  and  pushed  his  way 
through  the  crowded  saloon  to  the  bar,  where  he  called 
for  a  drink.  As  he  drank  his  Scotch,  he  looked  round 
the  place  until  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  red  face  of  the 
afore-mentioned  Solly,  whereupon  he  called  out  to  the 
bookmaker  above  the  hubbub  of  voices.  The  latter  rose 
from  his  chair  and,  smiling  recognition,  worked  his  way 
over  to  him  by  the  bar. 

The  two  men  conversed  together  for  some  five  min- 
utes— more  Scotch  being  ordered  by  James  Burkett: 
after  which  the  latter  shook  hands  with  the  red-faced  one 
and  departed  for  London. 

The  bookmaker  went  back  to  his  corner  and  resumed 
his  former  position.  From  long  custom  Solly's  chair  had 
become  sacred  to  him.  He  was  a  drunkard  who  never 
got  drunk,  and  a  good-hearted,  amiable  animal. 

"Who  was  that,  Sol?"  asked  one  of  the  men  sitting 
round. 

"James  Burkett." 

"What— the  owner  of  Peckham  Rise?" 

"Yes.  The  man  that  had  The  Gargoyle,  Percote, 
There  You  Are,  and  a  lot  of  good  uns  in  his  time.  I  re- 
members his  first  horse,  Thracian  Sea — a  good  horse  on 
the  flat.  He  bought  him,  and  put  him  to  the  other  game, 
and  won  several  races  with  him.  Broke  his  back  at  the 
finish,  and  Mrs.  Burkett's,  out  hunting — years  ago. 
He's  bin  a  reg'lar  gambler  in  his  time  has  Burkett — 
Racing  and  Stock  Exchange.  Bin  having  a  shock- 
ing time  lately  in  the  city  from  what  I've  heerd.  Stands 
to  win  a  packet  over  Layodyses  Love  for  the  long 
race,  and  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  lay  him  another  twenty 
hundreds." 

'|Anddidyou?" 

"No.  I've  heerd  something  once  or  twice  lately. 
Not  about  Burkett — about  the  horse.  Done  a  big  thing, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  393 

they  tell  me,  and  yet  no  one  seems  to  want  to  bet — he's 
the  first,"  and  he  nodded  toward  the  door. 

Someone  reached  for  the  "Evening  Standard." 
"Laydikies  Love.  Twenties,  taken  an'  offered." 

"Um!"  Solly  looked  doubtful,  and  the  conversation 
drifted  back  to  the  local  jumping  meeting  held  there  that 
day,  and  which  had  been  the  reason  of  James  Burkett 
being  in  the  neighborhood.  He  had  won  a  hundred 
pounds  that  afternoon,  and  stimulated  with  success  after 
a  long  spell  of  disasters,  he  had  taken  it  as  a  good  omen. 
The  old  gambling  instinct  reasserted  itself,  and  he 
promptly  decided  to  play  up  his  winnings  on  the  Cesare- 
witch  horse,  which  he  had  already  backed  to  win  him  ten 
thousand  pounds.  He  had  called  at  Solly's  place  after 
racing,  and  learning  that  that  gentleman  had  not  then  re- 
turned from  another  larger  meeting  some  distance  away, 
but  that  he  would  be  found  at  "The  Rising  Sun"  later  on 
in  the  evening,  James  had  decided  to  remain  in  Beer- 
minster  and  interview  the  bookmaker,  with  whom  he  had 
had  many  transactions  in  the  past. 

When  he  reached  his  club  on  the  following  Monday 
the  best  offer  he  could  get  was  sixteen  hundreds,  which 
he  booked,  and  went  home  feeling  hopeful  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

A  CESAREWITCH  FINISH 

IT  was  Cesarewitch  day  at  Newmarket. 

The  heath  lay  shimmering  under  a  pale  October  sun- 
light, but  James  Burkett's  hopes  had  sunk  to  zero  as  he 
walked  languidly  across  the  grass  to  the  stands,  and  a 
deep  gloom  had  settled  upon  him,  little  in  keeping  with 
the  glamours  of  the  autumn  day.  The  jockey  engaged  for 
Laodice's  Love  had  been  badly  kicked  while  at  the  post 
for  the  last  race  on  the  preceding  afternoon;  and,  with  a 
large  field  of  runners  for  the  big  race,  the  prospects  of  a 
suitable  pilot  being  found  for  the  horse  were  extremely 
remote.  He  was  not  an  easy  one  to  ride,  and  was  likely 
to  prove  too  much  of  a  handful  for  any  ordinary  light- 
weight. 

Confirmation  of  his  fears  was  soon  forthcoming  when 
he  reached  the  ring — a  rumor  being  current  that  a  stable 
apprentice  was  to  have  the  mount,  a  lad  of  little  experi- 
ence, and  who  would  have  to  put  up  some  pounds 
overweight.  Laodice's  Love  was  being  shouted  every- 
where at  twenty-five  to  one  and  even  thirty-three.  The 
horse  had  "come"  in  the  betting  during  the  past  few  days 
until  it  had  once  touched  a  hundred  to  eight.  For  which 
reasons  James  Burkett  went  to  the  bar  and  drank  three 
brandies  and  sodas  in  rapid  succession.  There  he  cursed 
himself  repeatedly  for  not  getting  rid  of  his  bets  when 
they  would  have  shown  good  hedging. 

When  the  numbers  went  up  for  the  Cesarewitch  he 
tried  to  extract  some  consolation  from  the  fact  that  the 
lad  had  managed  to  do  the  weight,  but  he  was  not  in  a 
condition  of  mind  to  find  much  comfort  in  anything,  and 

394 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  395 

watched,  with  sullen  helplessness,  his  horse  as  it  cantered 
and  finally  disappeared  with  the  rest  through  the  distant 
Ditch.  His  money  was  as  good  as  gone — he  might  as 
well  make  up  his  mind  for  that;  and  he  again  adjourned 
to  the  bar  to  fortify  himself  against  the  coming  debacle 
which  he  was  convinced  would  follow.  The  bloody  kid 
wouldn't  be  able  to  ride  one  side  of  him — that  was  a 
certainty. 

As  he  watched  the  white  flag  on  the  Ditch,  by  the 
Running  Gap,  he  felt  utterly  sick  at  heart  and  downright 
miserable.  His  luck  had  been  enough  to  settle  anyone. 

The  heat  that  excessive  drinking  produces  filled  his 
membranes,  inside  and  out.  His  eyes,  his  lungs,  were 
hot.  His  lips  were  cracked.  His  tongue  craved  cool  and 
liquid  things  with  an  insatiable  and  nauseating  thirst.  His 
stomach  seemed  to  smolder  with  revolt  against  the  long 
outrage  of  his  ways.  Disgust  was  busy  in  his  whole  being. 
He  was  a  man  ashamed,  a  poisoned  man,  a  man  who 
forced  himself  to  vomit,  a  man  losing  his  birthright  of 
clean  blood,  as  much  from  ennui  as  from  weakness  of 
will.  His  spirit  shook  in  him  with  the  palsy  of  life-weari- 
ness on  a  journey  through  lands  where  spring  was  some- 
thing that  had  ceased  to  be.  Happiness  was  beginning  to 
mean  for  him  now,  Drink.  If  one  could  always  be  "well- 
oiled,"  one  might  escape  the  grayness  of  a  sober  world, 
whose  very  sun  was  wearing  out  at  a  rate  beyond 
hypotheses,  even  those  of  the  most  pessimistic  philoso- 
phers. He  stood  there,  above  the  green  finish  of  the 
Rowley  Mile,  muttering  curses  to  himself,  and  wondering 
if  there  would  be  time  "for  another"  before  the  flag 
fell. 

The  white  patch,  motionless  in  the  windless  haze, 
suddenly  flickered  down.  "They're  off!"  sounded  in  his 
ears  like  a  knell.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  colors  flashing 
past  the  Gap,  as  the  field  swept  by.  When  the  moving 
specks  rose  up  out  of  the  heath,  as  they  came  on  to  The 
Flat,  he  looked  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  the  white  cap  on 
Laodice's  Love. 

On  they  came;  slowly,  it  seemed  at  first,  then  more 


396  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

rapidly,  as  they  approached  the  commencement  of  the 
rails. 

Something  in  scarlet  was  leading — the  rest  were 
bunched  together.  At  last  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Lao- 
dice's  Love  in  the  middle  of  the  mob  of  horses. 

An  outsider  was  shouted — then  the  favorite,  as  they 
came  over  the  top  of  The  Bushes  hill;  and  as  they  com- 
menced the  descent  he  came  through  on  the  rails,  and 
the  shouting  began  in  earnest. 

Then  James  Burkett,  who  had  been  staring  unsuccess- 
fully and  savagely  through  his  glasses,  suddenly  cried  out. 

Had  anyone  heard  him  amid  that  babel  of  excite- 
ment's noise,  they  would  have  looked  hard  at  him,  per- 
haps have  pitied  him.  It  sounded  like  a  cry  of  pain,  the 
cry  of  a  man  tortured,  who  has  forgotten  shame  and 
everything  but  his  hurt. 

"Like  a  shot  from  a  gun,"  the  boy  riding  Laodice's 
Love  had  dashed  his  horse  out  of  the  ruck.  Clear  in 
the  middle  of  the  course,  he  came  on  in  hot  pursuit.  The 
brute  swerved,  but  the  lad  straightened  him  and  then, 
riding  frantically,  kept  him  at  it. 

The  favorite  had  stolen  two  or  three  lengths,  and 
was  still  well  leading  as  they  came  into  the  Abingdon 
Mile  bottom.  As  they  rose  out  of  the  dip,  up  the  last 
ascent,  James  shivered  with  excitement — if  only  his  rider 
would  keep  him  going,  Laodice's  Love  might  do  it  yet! 
By  God !  the  little  beggar  could  ride — damn  his  eyes  if  he 
couldn't!  God  bless  the  little ! 

He  had  closed  with  the  favorite,  and,  riding  like  a 
madman,  had  taken  the  lead. 

It  was  too  much  for  the  overwrought  man  on  the 
stand.  He  yelled  insanely  till  his  wind  failed  him.  Then 
his  mouth  dropped,  and  he  stood  staring  idiotically  at  the 
struggle  going  on  before  his  red  unhappy  eyes. 

And  then — half  way  up  the  hill  the  boy  began  to 
weaken,  and  backers  howled  and  screamed  and  swore. 
It  was  obvious  that  the  jockey  on  Laodice's  Love  was 
beaten  though  the  horse  was  not.  The  favorite's  rider, 
seeing  what  had  occurred,  rode  desperately,  and  James 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  397 

cursed,  horribly,  obscenely,  at  the  unfortunate  lad  on 
Laodice's  Love  whom  a  moment  before  he  had  been 
ready  to  exalt  to  the  skies. 

Blast  it  all !    When  victory  was  well  within  his  grasp  I 

The  favorite  had  drawn  level  and,  running  on  with 
great  gameness,  got  his  head  in  front  again. 

Then  the  youngster  made  a  last  effort.  He  could 
scarcely  lift  his  arms;  his  face  was  deathly  white;  before 
him  was  a  gray  mist  through  which  the  winning  post 
quivered  like  a  sprung  lath ;  beside  him,  riding  for  all  he 
knew,  was  the  crack  jockey  of  the  day;  but  he  never  gave 
up  until  the  reins  slipped  from  his  useless  hands  and  he 
swayed  forward  over  his  horse's  neck — to  topple  over 
the  next  minute  right  in  the  way  of  the  field. 

Through  the  general  uproar  they  galloped  over  him : 
then  police  and  crowd  had  surged  round  the  body  lying 
a  few  yards  past  the  winning  post. 

"Thank  God!" 

James  Burkett  stood  staring  at  the  number  board. 
The  boy  had  won!  God  bless  him!  Then  he  realized 
that  there  had  been  an  accident,  and  he  went  in  and  had 
another  brandy  and  soda.  There  was  a  dreadful  wait; 
Burkett  drank  again  and  again.  He  dared  not  go  out. 
He  tried  to  smoke  a  cigar  after  many  attempts  to  light 
it.  A  man  who  knew  him  called  to  him  as  he  came  to  the 
bar  that  they  had  carried  the  boy  to  the  scales. 

"All  right!" 

When  the  shout  shook  his  aching  brain,  he  staggered 
away  to  the  back  of  the  stands  and  cried  huskily  for  a 
cab. 

He  felt  dazed  and  ill:  the  excitement  had  been  too 
much  for  him  in  his  then  condition:  his  head  was  burst- 
ing: he  must  have  quiet:  he  wanted  to  get  away  from 
the  noise — anywhere  where  it  was  quiet,  where  he  could 
cry  unobserved.  He  did  in  the  cab — all  the  way  to  the 
top  of  the  town. 

When  he  reached  the  hotel  he  went  straight  to  bed 
and,  completely  knocked  up,  fell  asleep,  even  while  he 
wept. 


398  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

The  next  day  he  got  out  of  bed — and  promptly  got 
back  again. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  the  doctor  came.  When  he 
had  examined  his  patient  he  informed  him  that  he  must 
stay  where  he  was,  and  positively  forbade  any  excitement 
— racing  was  out  of  the  question. 

He  went  away;  and  James  was  left  wondering.  He 
was  in  a  bad  way.  The  doctor  had  looked  grave  when 
he  said  "The  drink."  His  thirst  was  maddening — and 
he  was  to  drink  barley  water! 

He  spent  the  day  drinking  it,  making  good  resolutions, 
and  dozing  into  unquiet  sleep.  More  than  once  he  wept 
during  this  day. 

When  the  doctor  saw  him  on  the  Friday  he  pro- 
nounced him  better,  but  insisted  upon  rest  and  quiet;  and 
James  felt  little  inclination  to  disobey  his  injunctions. 

The  next  day  he  was  told  that  he  might  go  out  for  a 
quiet  walk.  Toward  noon  he  found  his  way  to  the  Race- 
course Side.  He  had  been  told  that  the  boy  who  had 
ridden  Laodice's  Love  to  victory  was  lying  at  the  cottage 
hospital  with  a  fractured  skull,  and,  as  he  returned,  he 
called  there  to  inquire  after  the  lad.  He  guessed  the 
cause  of  the  accident,  and  his  regret  for  the  unfortunate 
jockey  was  heightened  by  the  gratitude  he  felt  toward  him 
for  the  money  he  had  so  narrowly  won  by  the  horse's  suc- 
cess. He  had,  before  the  race,  been  contemplating,  not 
the  acquisition  of  a  little  fortune,  but  the  best  means  of 
raising  the  wind  to  the  tune  of  £600  which  he  had  "thrown 
away." 

He  was  told  the  boy  was  unconscious.  While  he 
stood  talking  to  one  of  the  nurses  about  his  chance  of 
recovery  the  door  of  the  ward  opened. 

What  he  saw  made  him  start  and  then  abruptly  leave 
the  building. 

Kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  injured  boy's  bed  was 
Margaret  Yeomans! 

The  light  was  on  her  face,  and — a  look  of  such  in- 
describable anguish  that  James  Burkett  trembled  and 
choked  as  he  walked  rapidly  away. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  399 

How  or  where  he  spent  the  next  few  hours  he  could 
but  vaguely  remember,  afterward.  He  wandered  about, 
trying  to  think  coherently,  but  his  wits  seemed  to  have 
left  him  at  the  sight  of  Margaret's  grief-haggard  face, 
and  his  brain  whirled  stupidly  about  in  a  kind  of  delirium. 

As  it  grew  dark  he  became  quieter,  and  realized  that 
he  was  some  miles  from  Newmarket,  in  the  Swaffham 
Lane,  near  the  starting  post  of  the  Beacon  Course. 

He  flung  himself  down  on  the  grass  by  the  roadside. 
Through  the  phantasmagorial  aftermath  of  drink,  excite- 
ment, and  "nerves,"  the  idea  which  had  its  beginnings 
in  his  vision  of  the  woman  kneeling  by  the  bedside  in 
the  Newmarket  hospital  ward  had  taken  definite  shape 
out  of  chaos,  and  its  persistence  in  his  overwrought  mind 
had  now  but  one  meaning  for  James  Burkett.  His  reason- 
ing faculties — dispersed  at  the  sight  of  her — returned  but 
to  clothe  the  thing  with  the  life  of  conviction,  until  it 
stood  before  him  a  living  truth.  To  use  his  own  ex- 
pression in  description  of  the  effect  it  produced  upon  him, 
— there  was  no  rabbit  hole  too  small  for  him  to  have 
crept  into. 

The  boy  he  had  blessed  and  cursed;  the  boy  who  had 
put  £ 1 1, 600  into  his,  James  Burkett's,  pocket  by  what 
he,  horseman  himself  as  he  was,  knew  to  have  been  an 
almost  superhuman  effort  which  might  cost  the  lad  his 
life — this  boy  was  his  own  son!  Margaret's  child!  It 
was  no  idea  now — it  was  certainty!  He  knew  it. 

The  past  was  clear  to  him  now.  Margaret,  for  his 
sake,  had  gone  away  and  borne  her  shame  in  silence. 

He  had  seen  the  boy  ride  before  in  minor  races — of 
which  he  had  won  one  or  two — without  interest  or  second 
thought  For  an  apprentice,  he  was  too  heavy  to  get 
much  riding.  His  weight  restricted  to  a  very  great  extent 
the  number  of  mounts  in  which  the  boy's  five-pound  allow- 
ance could  be  utilized. 

His  imagination,  quickened  into  abnormal  activity  by 
the  startling  turn  events  had  taken,  now  credited  Mar- 
garet and  her  boy  with  a  knowledge  of  his  financial 
losses,  and  a  noble  conspiracy  between  mother  and  son 


400  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

to  extricate  the  man  who  had  wronged  them  both  from 
his  difficulties.  His  losses,  he  knew,  had  been  common 
knowledge  in  the  racing  world  of  late;  and  no  doubt 
the  boy — his  boy,  and  his  blood  stirred  strangely  at  the 
thought — had,  by  heroic  efforts,  reduced  himself  so  much 
to  do  the  weight  that  the  inevitable  weakness  resulting 
from  such  courses — after  a  long  and  punishing  race  on  a 
notorious  "slug"  like  Laodice's  Love — had  brought  about 
the  catastrophe.  He  knew  the  boy's  recent  riding  weight, 
and  remembered  the  rumor  before  racing — that  J.  Young 
would  have  the  mount  at  about  seven  stone  nine.  He 
knew  what  those  two  pounds  might  mean  to  a  growing 
lad,  and  shuddered. 

And  she  had  called  him  "James,"  of  course!  Poor, 
brave,  loving,  little  Margaret !  If  the  boy  died  .  .  .The 
thought  maddened  him — he  dared  not  think  of  her  life 
and  his  own  in  the  future,  if  the  boy  died. 

In  that  hour  the  old  James  Burkett  died.  It  was  a 
different  man  that  walked  sorrowfully  and  slowly,  at 
first,  then  rapidly  back  to  Newmarket  through  the  quiet 
autumn  night. 

When  he  reached  his  hotel  he  composed  many  letters 
to  her,  and  at  last  dispatched  a  man  with  one  to 
the  hospital,  with  instructions  to  leave  it  for  the  boy's 
mother. 

That  night,  although  sleep  was  mostly  out  of  the 
question  for  him,  and  fear  and  shame  haunted  his  bed- 
side, the  enemy,  which  had  been  rapidly  undermining  his 
health  of  late,  tempted  him  in  vain. 

The  answer  came  next  morning  as  he  played  with 
his  breakfast.  It  ran: 


"Dear  James— 

"I  got  your  letter  and  thank  you  for  your  kind  offer  to  help 
my  poor  darling,  but  Mr.  Gates  has  been  very  kind  and  I  do  not 
want  for  money  or  anything.  But  thank  you  very  much,  dear 
James,  all  the  same.  I  will  write  and  explain  everything  in  a 
day  or  two,  only  I  am  too  upset  now,  I  cannot  write  any  more 
or  see  you  just  now  neither.  Except  to  say  that  I  know  I  did 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  401 

wrong  not  to  have  told  you  about  my  poor  Jimmy  being  your 
boy,  but  I  could  not  somehow,  and  I  thought  it  was  for  the  best. 
I  have  taken  the  name  of  Mrs.  Young. 

"Yours  affectionately, 

"MARGARET  YEOMANS." 

"P.  S. — I  forgot  to  say  Mr.  Gates  is  my  aunts  husband." 


CHAPTER    XLVIII 

THREE   TREES    AGAIN 

As  yet  James  Burkett  had  not  seen  Margaret,  to 
speak  to  her.  He  had  understood  from  her  letters,  after 
poor  little  Jim's  smash  up,  that  their  meeting  was  too 
much  for  her  just  then — she  was  too  upset  to  think  of 
anything  but  the  boy;  and  he  had  wisely  bided  his  time. 

For  Margaret  knew  certain  things,  of  which  (or  so 
she  believed)  James  was  in  ignorance,  and  she  felt  that 
if  Jimmy  died  she  could  not  meet  his  father,  or  even  think 
of  his  love  for  herself  again.  He  had  told  her,  in  his 
letters,  that  his  wife  had  died  many  years  ago. 

Then,  after  a  week  in  which  the  stricken  mother 
scarcely  closed  her  eyes,  the  danger  grew  less  and  less; 
and  the  youthful  James'  healthy  young  vitality  triumphed, 
and  she  could  think  of  James  the  man.  She  did  think 
of  him  very  often,  during  the  days  that  brought  her  boy 
back  to  health  and  strength. 

James  had  written  to  her  frequently.  She  had  taken 
Jimmy  away  to  the  seaside,  to  recuperate;  and  his  father 
had  more  than  once  expressed  the  hope,  in  his  letters,  that 
he  might  be  allowed  to  make  her  his  wife,  as  soon  as 
possible. 

James  the  man  had  spoken  to  his  father  and  mother, 
and  made  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  affair.  Mr.  Bur- 
kett had  been  horrified  beyond  measure  at  what  people 
would  say;  but  his  wife  had  agreed  to  see  Margaret;  and, 
after  a  while,  the  two,  seeing  their  son  was  set  on  the  mar- 
riage, withdrew  all  opposition.  He  had  hinted  to  Mar- 
garet that  his  mother  would  like  to  see  her,  which  piece 
of  diplomacy,  he  concluded,  would  do  much  to  bring  her 
to  him,  but  it  had  the  opposite  effect. 
402 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  403 

When  Margaret  read  his  increasing  desire  to  marry 
her,  her  heart  filled  with  such  happiness  as  seemed  too 
good  to  be  true :  when  she  heard  of  Mrs.  Burkett's  wish 
to  see  her  she  was  seized  with  a  panic  of  sudden  fear  and 
shame,  and  told  "dear  James,"  in  a  rather  incoherent 
letter,  that  she  could  not  face  his  mother. 

From  which  moment  Mrs.  Burkett  decided  that  it  was 
her  bounden  duty  to  make  the  young  woman's  acquaint- 
ance ;  and  at  last  the  two  had  come  together  at  Brighton. 
As  a  result  of  that  interview  Mrs.  Burkett  had  hence- 
forth assisted  her  son  to  the  utmost  extent  in  her  power. 

With  trembling  hands  that  fumbled  continuously  with 
her  brown  hair,  and  with  much  color  in  her  cheeks,  Mar- 
garet had  awaited  "his  mother,"  and  when  her  visitor  had 
been  announced  (Jimmy  had  been  sent  to  bed)  the  poor 
thing  was  in  a  state  of  the  most  dreadful  confusion.  But 
Mrs.  Burkett  was  getting  an  old  woman,  and  her  arms 
ached  to  feel  the  children  of  her  own  boy  about  her.  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  Margaret  and  the  latter  took  hold 
of  it  as  if  she  was  afraid  it  would  bite.  Wherefore  Mrs. 
Burkett — conscious  chiefly  of  the  flight  of  time,  as  only 
the  old  are — had  decided  to  dispense  with  unessential 
ceremony;  and  when  "his  mother"  said:  "Kiss  me,  my 
child,"  in  a  very  kind,  though  rather  sad,  voice,  Margaret 
had  forgotten  her  fears,  and  begged  for  forgiveness.  A 
woman's  tears,  no  doubt,  frequently  deceive  a  man — they 
seldom  deceive  another  woman.  Margaret's  were  too 
genuine  to  have  deceived  anybody,  and  "his  mother" 
found  a  strange  satisfaction  in  soothing  the  warm, 
sobbing,  and  still  young  body  which  her  arms  enclosed. 
To  be  stiff  and  formal  with  Margaret  she  found  was  im- 
possible— one  might  as  easily  be  stiff  and  formal  with  the 
wild  flowers  of  similar  name. 

The  sleeping  Jimmy  had  been  discovered  to  his  grand- 
mother's admiring  eyes,  which  had  immediately  recog- 
nized, beyond  any  shadow  of  a  doubt,  the  work  of  her 
own  son  in  the  boy's  upturned  face.  She  had  suddenly 
become  weak  and  foolish,  and  Margaret  had  been  so 
tenderly  solicitous  and  thoughtful  altogether  that  Mrs. 


404  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

Burkett  had  not  only  thanked  her,  and  blessed  her, 
and  kissed  her  many  times  in  return,  but  had  de- 
cided there  and  then  that  the  sooner  the  two  made 
themselves  respectable  the  better  it  would  be  for  £very- 
body. 

When  James  had  confessed  to  his  father  his  doubts 
as  to  his  capacity  to  carry  on  successfully  his  share  in  the 
firm,  Mr.  Burkett  had  reluctantly  agreed  that  he  should 
go  his  own  way,  and  assist  a  low  racehorse  trainer:  no 
doubt  he  would  develop  into  a  sort  of  ostler  eventually. 
But  Mr.  Burkett,  in  secret,  had,  by  now,  grave  misgivings 
as  to  his  son's  ability  to  steer  the  good  ship  Burkett  and 
Bowker  once  he  had  left  the  helm ;  in  which  he  was  wise 
in  his  generation.  Also,  he  was  better  away  from  Wim- 
bledon: there  would  be  no  end  of  a  scandal  if  he  brought 
home  a  country  wench  for  a  wife,  and  a  half-grown  lad 
with  her. 

The  worthy  merchant  retained  a  sleeping  partnership, 
and  matters  were  arranged  by  the  introduction  of  fresh 
blood  into  the  concern — much  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
recalcitrant  James. 

It  had  transpired  from  Margaret's  letters  that  Mr. 
Gates  had  let  some  of  his  land,  for  some  years,  to  a 
trainer,  who  had  been  so  far  successful  that  he  now  re- 
quired assistance.  This  much  James  had  learned  from 
her;  and  he  had  suggested  that  he  should  marry  her  and 
go  into  partnership  with  the  man.  Jimmy  had  been  ap- 
prenticed to  him ;  and  it  was  in  consequence  of  Mr.  Gates 
overhearing  a  part  of  the  conversation  respecting  James 
Burkett  in  "The  Rising  Sun"  at  Beerminster  (whither 
he  had  gone  for  the  races  with  his  friend  the  trainer) ,  to- 
gether with  the  remarks  respecting  that  same  trainer's 
horse,  Laodice's  Love,  that  Margaret  had  determined 
to  tell  her  boy  her  secret  and  his  own  history.  For  the 
trainer  had  not  been  in  the  public  house  during  the  talk 
of  Solly  and  his  friends,  and  when  he  returned  with  Mr. 
Gates  to  Hazley  Parva  that  night,  and  in  accordance  with 
their  custom  the  two  went  into  the  latter's  place  for  a 
parting  glass  and  a  pipe,  they  had  discussed  the  subject 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  405 

at  some  length  in  the  presence  of  Aunt  Deb  and  Mar- 
garet. 

And  then,  some  days  afterward,  the  wildly  excited 
Jimmy  had  come  over  to  his  mother  from  the  trainer's, 
with  the  news  that  he  was  to  have  the  mount  on  Laodice's 
Love  next  day  in  the  Cesarewitch,  through  a  mishap  to 
the  crack  jockey  who  had  been  engaged  to  ride  him — he 
had  just  been  telegraphed  for,  and  was  to  be  off  by  the 
last  train  that  night. 

Now  Margaret  had  long  felt  that  the  time  was  at 
hand  when  she  ought  to  acquaint  Jimmy  with  the  name  of 
his  father  and  the  particulars  of  his  birth.  He  was 
getting  a  big  boy  now,  only  he  was  so  thin,  which  worried 
her;  but  then,  Jimmy  had  told  her  that  he  was  all  the 
better  for  that — it  wouldn't  do  to  let  himself  get  fat. 
And  now  poor  James,  his  father,  was  going  to  be  ruined 
at  the  very  least,  if  Laodice's  Love  did  not  win.  She  had 
seen  his  name  in  the  racing  papers  which  found  their  way 
over  from  the  trainer's  to  Lonesome.  She  had  often 
seen  her  boy  ride  the  horse  in  rough  gallops.  Perhaps 
that  Helen  Darell  was  extravagant;  perhaps  he  had  had 
great  troubles  and  had  gone  in  for  gambling  dreadful; 
perhaps — a  thousand  things.  She  wondered  if  James 
was  happy  with  his  wife — if  he  had  boys  growing  up  like 
hers.  And  perhaps,  from  what  Mr.  Gates  had  heard, 
poor  James'  home  would  be  sold  up!  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Providence  had  decreed  that  her  Jim  should  be  the 
means  of  saving  his  father;  to  which  end  Hicks  had  been 
kicked  at  Newmarket  that  very  afternoon.  Jimmy  must 
win  the  race  on  Laodice's  Love  to-morrow!  She  would 
summon  up  her  courage  and  tell  him — it  would  make  him 
ride  so  that  nothing  could  beat  him ! 

And  so,  as  she  walked  with  him  through  the  dark- 
ness, across  the  deserted  downs  to  the  training  quarters, 
with  many  tears  and  blushes,  and  holding  his  arm  very 
tightly,  she  told  him  all. 

The  boy,  a  light-hearted  youngster,  had  often  ques- 
tioned his  mother  about  his  father,  in  the  past.  From 
her  evasive  replies  and  the  fact  that  his  questionings 


4o6  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

caused  her  evident  distress,  he  had  long  ago  surmised 
that  there  was  a  trouble  in  his  mother's  life  which  ex- 
tended to  his  own,  and  thenceforth  he  had  avoided  the 
subject. 

Like  a  good  boy,  he  at  once  did  his  best  to  comfort 
her  and  cheer  her  up.  Having  learnt  that  his  father 
stood  to  win  heavily  upon  the  horse  and  that  he  had 
been  having  a  bad  time,  he  promptly  conceived  the  ro- 
mantic idea  of  saving  him  from  ruin  by  riding  such  a 
finish  on  Laodice's  Love  as  should  make  his  father  rich 
and  himself  famous.  He  had  ridden  the  horse  at  exercise, 
and  once  in  a  trial — when  he  had  pleased  his  master  by 
winning  cleverly,  for  which  reason  he  had  been  given  the 
mount.  As  has  already  appeared  he  was  near  to  losing  his 
life  in  the  attempt;  for,  denying  himself  of  everything 
but  the  merest  morsel  of  food  (heroic  in  a  lad  of  his 
years),  and  sweating  himself  blind  on  the  morning  o'f  the 
race,  to  get  down  to  Laodice's  seven  stone  seven,  the  poor 
boy  was  overcome  by  the  weakness  resulting  from  such 
drastic  methods  by  a  growing  lad,  and  fainted  away  in 
the  saddle  as  he  reached  the  winning  post. 

Margaret,  as  soon  as  he  was  out  of  danger,  had  been 
filled  with  pride  at  his  gallant  achievement,  but  had  mod- 
estly refrained  from  mentioning  these  details  in  her 
letters  to  James,  until  he  had  slowly  extracted  them  from 
her — prompted  thereto  by  his  own  convictions. 

As  for  James  Burkett — his  exaltation  in  his  son  had 
been  increased  by  remorse  and  shame  in  himself;  and 
something  better  than  his  youthful  passion  for  Margaret 
came  back  to  him.  After  his  wife's  death  he  had  thought 
of  her  often.  He  had  concluded  that  she  had  probably 
married,  and  when,  on  the  occasion  that  he  had  paid  a 
visit  to  Midford  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  her,  if  pos- 
sible, he  had  learnt  that  strangers  were  living  at  the  cot- 
tage, he  had  refrained  from  making  inquiries  about  its 
previous  occupants. 

Not  since  his  above-mentioned  visit  had  James  Bur- 
kett been  in  Midford  Holt  until  to-day. 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  407 

He  had  walked  from  Shapston,  where  he  had  left  the 
train.  As  he  reached  the  Crossways,  where  they  had  met, 
he  halted,  and  the  girl  who  had  directed  him  there  those 
sixteen  years  ago  stood  before  him  again  in  fancy  as  he 
thought  of  her — Margaret,  his  Margaret,  Margaret 
with  the  soft,  shy,  trustful  eyes  and  blushing  cheeks  of 
awakening  womanhood. 

And  he  was  going  to  marry  her  now — if  she  would 
have  him.  For  in  spite  of  his  repeated  and  urgent  wishes 
to  that  effect,  Margaret  was  strangely  coy,  or  something. 
She  would  not  give  him  a  definite  answer — stating  that 
she  was  afraid  he  might  wish  to  change  his  mind — that 
perhaps  it  was  only  because  he  was  "sorry,"  and  a  thou- 
sand other  things.  Women  were  uncertain  creatures  at  the 
best  of  times — they  never  knew  their  own  minds  two  days 
together.  Then  his  conscience  smote  him  for  such 
thoughts  about  her,  and  he  felt  suddenly  small  beside  the 
greatness  of  this  one's  unselfish  love.  By  Gad!  He  was 
a  rotter  beside  her !  All  men  were !  « 

He  walked  on.  In  the  west  were  twilight-purple  bars 
of  cloud — the  gates  that  darkling  close  on  day;  in  the 
east  the  pale  blue-gray  skies  of  a  winter  evening.  It  was 
very  mild,  even  up  here  in  the  hill  country,  and  for  days 
there  had  been  no  rain.  Midford  Holt  lay  dusk  and  still, 
with  its  tattered  remnants  of  the  departed  year  of  the  leaf 
still  clinging  in  sheltered  places,  where  the  sturdy  oaks 
carried  their  faded  autumn  trappings  through  the  winter, 
until  their  new  bronze  livery  invested  them  once  rrpre 
with  spring.  Higher  up,  toward  Moulton  Ridges,  the 
myriad  birch  trunks  showed  clean  and  white  and  clear 
above  the  ocher-colored  bracken  beneath. 

He  walked  swiftly  up  the  bridle-path  through  the 
failing  light.  Up  above  him — up  there  on  Three  Trees — 
Margaret  was  waiting  for  him  with  their  boy.  The  old 
place  seemed  very  dear  and  familiar  as  he  looked  about 
him.  Here  it  was  they  had  wandered  together  in  those 
far  off  days.  Change,  it  seemed,  came  here  but  seldom 
or  not  at  all.  Here,  by  this  matted  thorn,  they  had  stood 
together  and  kissed  each  other  many  times.  Down  this 


408  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

same  old  grass-grown  track  had  they  walked  together, 
that  night  when  they  said  good-bye.  The  old,  forgotten 
landmarks  came  back  to  him  reproachfully  as  he  thought 
of  what  this  woman  had  been  to  him. 

And  then,  as  he  came  in  sight  of  the  distant  trees — a 
dark  blur  against  the  sky — James  Burkett  stopped,  filled 
with  sudden  awe.  For  the  film  of  self  which  had  so  long 
obscured  his  eyes  was  falling  away,  and  he  saw  himself 
as  he  was.  It  was  not  a  very  great,  or  a  very  good  sight 
to  look  upon.  The  Colossus  which  had  for  so  long 
filled  the  horizons  of  James  Burkett  shrank  and  dwindled 
until  it  became  a  thing  small  and  of  poor  account  against 
the  boundless  skies  of  a  woman's  love. 

With  uncovered  head,  he  walked  humbly  up  the  knoll, 
where  the  three  pines  kept  their  vigil  through  night  and 
day,  nor  ever  ceased  communing  with  the  hills  and  winds 
and  stars  in  their  strange,  mysterious  undertones  which 
seem  to  tell  of  things  old  as  the  world — unheard,  and  un- 
beheld  of  men. 

It  was  now  quite  dark,  but  he  could  see  their  figures 
and  the  outlines  of  Jimmy's  bicycle  against  the  paler 
sky.  He  called  out,  "It's  me,  Margaret!"  The  boy  had 
seen  him  and,  after  pressing  his  mother's  hand  a  moment, 
he  came  down  the  slope  to  meet  him — shyly  holding  out 
his  hand.  James,  with  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat, 
grasped  it  and  shook  it  warmly.  Then  he  took  his  boy  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  his  forehead.  "God  bless  you,  Jimmy 
boy,  you've  saved  your  father  and  risked  your  life  to  do 
it!"  he  said,  quickly,  and  so  that  Margaret  should  hear. 

At  last,  still  holding  his  son's  hand,  he  stood  before 
the  woman  who  had  given  herself  to  him  on  this  self- 
same spot  sixteen  years  ago. 

yery  simply,  and  with  an  unconscious  and  pathetic 
dignity,  the  lad,  whose  life  had  begun  there,  lifted  his 
father's  hand  and  placed  it  in  his  mother's.  James  the 
man  took  the  two  of  them  into  his  arms.  .  .  . 

With  the  natural  reluctance  of  the  human  boy  to  wit- 
ness scenes  of  emotion  in  which  his  elders  are  concerned, 
the  youngster  had  turned  to  his  bicycle,  feeling  that  his 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  409 

part  was  done,  and  that  he  had  best  leave  them  a  little. 
After  cheerfully  ringing  the  bell  once  or  twice,  to  buck 
them,  and  himself,  up  a  bit,  he  jumped  on  one  pedal  and 
disappeared  into  the  darkness — to  an  accompaniment  of 
crackling  bracken  stems  and  the  hollow,  drumming  sound 
of  the  tires,  as  he  careered  about  a  little  way  below 
them. 

"Margaret!" 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it  rever- 
ently. He  wanted  to  kiss  her  lips,  but  something  held 
him  back. 

She  had  suggested  that  they  should  meet  here.  Now 
that  she  was  with  him  once  again,  such  a  crowd  of 
memories  swept  over  her  as  made  her  silent  to  the  verge 
of  awkwardness  with  him.  He  did  not  understand,  of 
course, — a  man  wouldn't — but  her  long  years  of  chastity 
had  made  her  shy  of  men.  At  his  touch  her  overwrought 
womanhood  sought  relief  in  a  passion  of  sobbing. 

It  was,  in  reality,  the  simplest  and  the  best  method  of 
reconciliation.  If  only  in  common  humanity,  it  was  im- 
perative that  he  should  take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her; 
and  once  she  found  herself  there,  if  her  sobbings  did  not 
immediately  cease,  they  became  sufficiently  manageable 
to  make  it  possible  for  her  to  return  his  kiss.  After  that 
she,  apparently,  found  kisses  more  comforting  than  tears, 
for  the  latter  subsided  in  volume  as  the  former  increased 
in  number;  and  at  last,  James  said: 

"Margaret,  you  are  not  a  fit  wife  for  me — you  are 
worth  twenty  such  men  as  I !  but  if  you  will  marry  me  I 
will  try  my  level  best  to  make  you  and  Jimmy  happy.  We 
can  live  near  your  aunt,  farm  a  bit  of  land,  and  settle 
down  nice  and  comfortable.  If  not  for  my  sake,  for 
Jimmy's,  say  'Yes' !" 

She  said  "Yes,"  of  course, — she  had  wanted  to  say 
"Yes"  a  thousand  times,  at  least,  since  Jimmy  began  to 
get  better,  but  she  had  been  afraid — afraid  that  it  was 
only  because  he  was  "sorry"  which  made  him  ask  her. 
But  a  wonderful  thing  had  come  to  her — James  really 
and  truly  loved  her  now;  he  had  told  her  so,  time  after 


410  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

time,  in  his  letters,  although  she  had  found  a  sort  of 
dreadful  pleasure  in  tormenting  herself  by  suggesting 
reasons  to  show  that  he  was  deceiving  himself.  But  now 
her  own  heart  told  her  so,  and  she  was  wise  enough  not 
to  question  that. 

The  crackling  of  the  bracken  and  the  drumming  of 
the  tires  had  ceased — Jimmy  was  practicing  upon  the 
smooth  turf  beside  the  bridle-road  further  down  the 
Holt:  the  sound  of  his  bell  reached  their  ears  from  time 
to  time. 

James  thought  a  minute,  and  then  asked  her  another 
question,  which  put  her  all  in  a  flutter  again.  At  last,  as 
she  seemed  to  experience  considerable  difficulty  in  coming 
to  a  decision,  he  hinted  that  she  had  better  leave  it  to 
him. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  gentle,  loving  eyes,  and 
sighed  with  relief. 

"Yes,  dear.    Tow  say!" 

"Very  well.    To-day  week!" 

"0-h,  Jim!" 

"Never  mind  about  'Oh,  Jim' — that'll  be  all  right! 
It  isn't  as  if  we're  strangers — we're  old  married  people 
really.  You've  been  a  true  wife  to  me,  if  ever  any  woman 
has!"  He  had  told  her  of  the  events  which  led  up  to  the 
death  of  his  wife.  "Sooner  the  better,  I  say!"  he  con- 
tinued. 

Thereupon  commenced  a  battle  of  arguments  for  and 
against,  which  ended — as  it  was  certain  to  end,  both 
parties  being,  in  reality,  of  one  accord — in  Margaret 
promising  to  become  his  lawful  wedded  wife  on  that  day 
week.  When  he  expressed  a  hope  that  by  this  time  next 
year  there  might,  perhaps,  be  a  little  Margaret  in  exist- 
ence, she  became  one  big  blush  all  over;  and  he  rallied 
her  at  her  confusion — but  seeing  that  it  caused  her 
genuine  distress,  it  dawned  upon  him  that  he  was  putting 
his  foot  in  it,  and  he  wisely  tried  to  look  at  it  from  a 
woman's  point  of  view.  He  so  far  succeeded — a  result 
of  his  recent  awakening — that  he  was  surprised  to  find 
how  much  deeper  the  whole  question  of  children,  the 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  411 

pain  and  the  burden,  the  wonder  and  the  glory,  went 
down  into  a  mother's  being  than  into  a  man's. 

"Sorry,  Margaret!  Forgive  me,  dear,  it  was  only  a 
man's  beastly  thoughtlessness!" 

For  answer,  she  reached  up  to  him  and,  drawing  his 
face  down,  kissed  him  passionately.  Her  nature,  all  too 
long  a-hungered  for  its  natural  joy,  the  right  of  child- 
bearing  to  the  man  she  loved,  leapt  to  his  touch:  her  in- 
herent maternity,  which  she  had  stifled,  in  spite  of  more 
than  one  offer  of  marriage,  yearned  to  him  as  to  its  re- 
lease after  long  years  of  bondage.  That  night,  ere  she 
lay  down  to  sleep,  she  thanked  her  God  with  fervent 
prayers,  and  with  deep  humility  asked  that  she  might  yet 
bring  other  children  to  her  husband. 

The  boy's  bicycle  bell  sounded  through  the  dark — he 
was  getting  impatient. 

It  was  time  they  thought  about  starting  back  for 
Shapston,  she  supposed;  and  James  struck  a  match  and 
looked  at  his  watch.  She  had  come  with  Jimmy  from 
Hazley  Parva  by  train  to  Shapston.  The  boy  had 
brought  his  bicycle  for  the  double  purpose  of  saving  his 
legs  if  he  got  too  tired  walking — he  was  still  rather  weak 
from  his  accident — and  of  showing  it  to  his  father;  and 
James,  informed  of  this  by  Margaret,  insisted  upon 
thoroughly  examining  it  when  they  reached  Shapston. 
There  he  put  them  in  the  train  for  Hazley;  and  remained 
himself  for  the  night  at  an  hotel. 

James  Burkett's  interview  with  Aunt  Deb  had  been  a 
rather  shame-faced  affair  on  his  part,  and  he  had  had  the 
grace  to  carry  himself  humbly  in  the  presence  of  the 
homely  woman  upon  whom  he  had  brought  much  tribula- 
tion in  his  younger  days. 

Said  Aunt  Deb  to  herself,  after  he  had  gone:  "Well, 
well,  it's  been  all  for  the  best!  He'll  be  able  to  appre- 
ciate her,  now!"  and,  small  as  had  been  her  experience  of 
men  in  his  walk  of  life,  she  was  not  far  from  the  truth. 

He  had  quickly  formed  a  liking  for  sturdy  Michael 
Gates — a  man  of  simple  honesty,  if  a  rather  rough  one; 


4i2  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

and  he  had  completed  arrangements  with  Michael's 
friend,  the  trainer,  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  Out  here 
on  the  hills  James  Burkett  felt  a  new  man,  and  looked 
forward  with  confidence  to  his  future  career. 

The  wedding  had  been  a  very  quiet  one.  Mr.  Ber- 
tram Burkett  had  brought  his  wife  from  Wimbledon  to 
be  present  at  the  ceremony,  and  the  old  gentleman  had 
thawed  rapidly  before  the  unaffected  sincerity  with  which 
the  "yokels"  had  endeavored  to  please  and  interest  him. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rush  had  come  from  Balham,  to  be  enter- 
tained for  a  week  or  so  by  Aunt  Deb  and  her  husband. 
They  were,  by  now,  old  friends  with  the  folk  at  the 
farm — having  paid  Margaret  a  visit  at  least  once  every 
year. 

And  Margaret?  But  I  will  not  attempt  to  do  justice 
to  Margaret  in  her  blushes  and  bridal.  Suffice  for  me 
to  say — as  the  fact  sufficed  for  her — that  her  bridegroom 
was  more  than  satisfied  with  her;  and  incidentally — that 
"his  mother"  wiped  her  eyes  surreptitiously  during  the 
day;  that  Aunt  Deb  suffered  largely  from  the  same  com- 
plaint; and  that  Mrs.  Rush  was  voluble,  prophetic,  and 
fiercely  tender  and  tearful  by  turns. 

Gammer  Polgrean  had  gone  to  her  rest,  only  three 
years  before.  After  the  cottage  had  become  her  own 
property  Margaret  had  let  it.  For  her  honeymoon  the 
tenants  had  obligingly  found  quarters  elsewhere.  That 
James  and  herself  should  inaugurate  their  lawful  wedded 
life  by  a  stay  in  Midford,  all  the  sentiments  required. 
Margaret  felt,  in  addition  to  her  own  emotions,  that  it 
was  her  duty  to  Gammer  Polgrean. 

That  old  woman,  toward  her  end,  had  listened  long 
and  respectfully  to  the  rector.  Margaret  had  lived  with 
her,  on  and  off,  during  her  closing  years.  Only  her  bodily 
strength  failed  her:  she  kept  all  her  faculties,  and  often 
teased  her  companion  with  sly  allusions  to  the  Holt  and 
certain  goings  on  that  had  been  there  in  the  past.  She 
was  proud  of  Margaret,  and  woe  betide  the  man  or 
woman  or  child  that  dared  to  speak  ill  of  one  she  looked 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  413 

on  as  her  daughter.  To  the  last  she  insisted  to  the  latter 
that  her  man  would  be  glad  to  come  back  to  her.  On 
her  death-day,  the  Gammer  provided  the  natives  with 
one  more  exploit  by  which  to  remember  her.  She  flatly 
refused  to  die  in  her  bed,  like  a  Christian  woman.  With 
Margaret  to  assist  her  she  walked  a  mile  and  a  half  into 
the  Holt.  Nothing  Margaret  could  say  against  it  could 
turn  the  indomitable  old  soul  from  her  wish ;  so  she  asked 
the  woman  who  now  lived  at  what  had  once  been  Aunt 
Deb's  cottage,  to  let  her  son  follow  them  in  case  help  was 
required.  When  the  Gammer's  strength  gave  out,  and 
she  was  compelled  to  rest,  Margaret  sat  down  beside  her 
and  supported  her  with  her  arm.  The  old  woman  began 
to  doze ;  and  Margaret  beckoned  to  the  boy  to  run  back 
for  the  pony  and  trap  he  had  promised  to  have  ready. 
While  he  was  gone  and  Margaret  was  tearfully  waiting 
for  his  return,  the  Gammer  woke  up.  She  tried  to  speak, 
and  managed  to  say,  "Kiss  me,  dearie!"  as  Margaret, 
frightened,  flung  loving  arms  round  her.  Ere  help  came 
she  had  died  quite  peacefully;  and  Margaret  knew  that 
she  had  had  her  wish. 

It  was  their  wedding  night,  and  James  had  driven 
her  over  from  Hazley.  They  had  left  the  trap  at  an  inn 
near  the  bottom  of  the  northern  slope  of  the  downs — to 
be  taken  back  next  day — and  walked  up  to  Three  Trees. 
Jimmy  had  remained  at  Lonesome. 

It  was  very  dark  and  clear:  beside  and  through  the 
black,  cavernous  roofs  of  the  pines,  the  star-fire  burned 
on  its  endless  flight  through  time  and  space — just  such  a 
night  of  stars  as  it  had  been  that  other  night,  those  six- 
teen years  ago,  when  the  man  and  the  woman,  standing 
there  now,  had  called  up  that  other  life  which  was  to  part 
them  for  so  long,  and  bring  them  together  again  in  the 
end. 

Not  purer  the  clear  white  rays,  in  James  Burkett's 
sight,  than  the  light  in  the  gray  eyes  of  the  woman  he 
held  against  his  heart  For  purity  was  the  star-fire  of 
Margaret's  nature:  sweet  and  clean — as  the  west  wind 


4H  "THRACIAN  SEA" 

which  swept  its  song  from  her  beloved  Three  Trees — she 
was,  and  in  her  thinking  dwelt  no  evil  thing.  She  was  of 
the  tribe  of  women  who,  being  pure  at  heart,  irradiate  the 
darkness  caused  by  evil  done  of  men  and  women  upon 
each  other.  She  would  not  have  had  the  courage  to 
face  "his  mother,"  those  sixteen  years  ago,  but  she  would 
have  given  her  own  life  freely  for  "his  mother's"  son 
she  loved.  If  the  former  be  held  as  foolishness  in  her,  it 
shall  be  by  wiser  folk  than  the  writer  of  this  tale. 
If  her  hats  were  sometimes  dowdy,  he  has  not  noticed  it 
when  he  has  seen  the  woman  in  her  face — and  she  has 
more  faces  than  dowdy  hats,  he  does  most  solemnly  aver; 
since  there  are  many  Margarets  in  the  world.  Sometimes 
she  meets  him  in  a  London  street :  he  has  seen  her,  a  soli- 
tary woman,  upon  the  fells :  he  has  seen  her  feeding  her 
baby  behind  some  south-coast  breakwater  at  excursion 
times. 

"O— hi" 

Her  hand  clutched  his  arm,  and  they  stared  up  above 
them  at  it — the  pale  green  scratch  of  fire,  that  had  torn 
the  zenith  across  and  was  now  slowly  fading  from  the 
skies.  For  Margaret,  the  meteor  was  an  omen  of  glad 
tidings.  Long  after  all  trace  of  it  had  vanished  she 
stood,  with  her  face  resting  against  her  husband's  breast, 
gazing  up  at  the  heavens;  since,  when  you  saw  a  shooting 
star,  there  was  a  baby  born,  and  people  who  wished  then 
were  supposed  to  be  lucky. 

"Stargazing — little  wife?"  he  asked  presently,  after 
looking  down  into  her  eyes,  that,  full  of  dreams  and  stars, 
seemed  now  as  if  magnetized  by  the  unearthly  splendors 
of  the  evening  planet's  slowly  sinking  fires,  that  crept 
earthward  down  the  west. 

She  lifted  her  head  a  little,  and  her  shining  eyes  clung 
to  his. 

"They  seem  to  draw  closer,  Jim,  if  you  look  at  them 
— the  stars." 

He  raised  his  head  obediently,  and  looked.  Far  away 
behind  him,  his  dead  wife  went  to  dust  beside  her  lover, 


"THRACIAN  SEA"  415 

on  that  other  hill.  He  wondered  "where  she  was,"  and 
the  thought  touched  him  strangely  at  that  moment.  (It 
was  not  until  long  after,  that  Margaret  told  him  of  the 
veiled  lady  who  had  lifted  Jimmy  up  that  day  by  the  cot- 
tage. He  never  guessed  it  was  his  other  wife.)  Then 
his  mind  came  back  to  the  present.  Margaret  had  no 
cause  for  jealousy:  Helen  was  becoming  but  a  sorrowful 
memory.  He  was  happier  now  than  he  had  ever  ex- 
pected to  be  again.  All  desire  for  drink  had  left  him; 
and  thankfulness  for  escape  from  his  old,  unsatisfying 
life  was  strong  within  him,  as  they  walked,  very  slowly, 
down  the  dark  bridle-path  through  Midford  Holt. 

To  Margaret,  he  was  her  own  dear  husband,  and  a 
man  only  less  wonderful  than  the  man  who  had  spoken 
to  her  by  the  Crossways,  sixteen  years  before. 

They  stopped  by  the  dim  roads,  for  her  to  kiss  him, 
ere  they  went  on  to  Gammer  Polgrean's  cottage. 


THE  END 


f  •  ^HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  Mac- 
•*•  millan  books  by  the  same  author,  and  new  fiction. 


THE  POEMS  OF  JOHN  HELSTON 
Aphrodite,  and  Other  Poems 

Cloth,  izmo.    $1.25  net. 

"Mr.  Helston's  poetical  gift  is  clearly  out  of  the  common." 

The  Dial 

"...  proclaims  himself  in  these  poems  a  true  singing  poet 
of  genuine  inspiration. " — N.  Y.  Globe. 


"Every  lover  of  fine  poetry  should  find  fresh  delight  in  this 
new  singer. " — Review  of  Reviews. 

"  No  franker  love  poetry  has  been  written,  probably,  but  some- 
how we  fail  to  find  in  it  the  sensuality  that  its  critics  have  dis- 
covered. It  is  richly  pagan. " — The  Little  Review. 


"'Aphrodite  at  Leatherhead'  is  remarkable  both  for  its  sus- 
tained power  and  beauty  of  diction  of  the  wealth  of  supersensu- 
ous  imagery  which  seems  to  have  elicited  protests  from  the 
censorious  .  .  .  Whatever  view  may  be  taken  of  the  author's 
professed  ideals  in  art  and  morality,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as 
to  his  poetical  force  and  originality  .  .  .  " — The  Atheneeum. 


"Almost  every  page  has  some  striking  image  or  passage  that 
could  be  quoted  to  prove  that  Mr.  Helston  is  a  real  poet  .  .  . 
the  best  and  most  perfect  poem  in  the  book  is  '  Aphrodite "... 
the  revolutionary  lines  on  Shelley  are  sincere  and  very  fine. 

— The  English  Review. 

"...  page  after  page  in  this  volume  is  beautiful  and  im- 
petuous proof  that  love  no  less  real  than  mystical  has  been  its 
inspiration." — London  Times. 

"'Lonicera  is  indeed  a  very  remarkable  achievement,  that 
happens  incidentally  also  to  be  a  new  form  in  poetic  art." — 

— The  Nineteenth  Century. 

"At  its  best  the  poetry  in  this  book  rises  to  an  intensity  of 
passion  such  as  would  seem  to  promise  the  achievement  of 
greatness,  and  Mr.  Helston  has  a  varied  and  rich  and  often 
beautiful  diction." — The  Nation  (London). 


PUBLISHED   BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  FICTION 


The  Wife  of  Sir  Isaac  Harman 

By  H.  G.  WELLS. 

Cloth,  izmo.     $1.50  net: 

The  name  of  H.  G.  Wells  upon  a  title  page  is  an  assurance 
of  merit.  It  is  a  guarantee  that  on  the  pages  which  follow 
will  be  found  an  absorbing  story  told  with  master  skill.  In  the 
present  book  Mr.  Wells  surpasses  even  his  previous  efforts. 
He  is  writing  of  modern  society  life,  particularly  of  one  very 
charming  young  woman,  Lady  Harman,  who  finds  herself  so 
bound  in  by  conventions,  so  hampered  by  restrictions,  largely 
those  of  a  well  intentioned  but  short  sighted  husband,  that  she 
is  ultimately  moved  to  revolt.  The  real  meaning  of  this  revolt, 
its  effect  upon  her  life  and  those  of  her  associates  are  narrated 
by  one  who  goes  beneath  the  surface  in  his  analysis  of  human 
motives.  In  the  group  of  characters,  writers,  suffragists,  labor 
organizers,  social  workers  and  society  lights  surrounding  Lady 
Harman,  and  in  the  dramatic  incidents  which  compose  the  years 
of  her  existence  which  are  described  by  Mr.  Wells,  there  is  a 
novel  which  is  significant  in  its  interpretation  of  the  trend  of 
affairs  today,  and  fascinatingly  interesting  as  fiction.  It  is 
Mr.  Wells  at  his  best. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE    MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  FICTION 


The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore 

By  JACK  LONDON,  Author  of  "The  Sea  Wolf," 

"The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  etc. 
With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  Anton  Fischer.    Cloth,  izmo.   $1.35  net. 

Everyone  who  remembers  The  Sea  Wolf  with  pleasure  will 
enjoy  this  vigorous  narrative  of  a  voyage  from  New  York  around 
Cape  Horn  in  a  large  sailing  vessel.  The  Mutiny  of  the  Elsinore 
is  the  same  kind  of  tale  as  its  famous  predecessor,  and  by  those 
who  have  read  it,  it  is  pronounced  even  more  stirring.  Mr. 
London  is  here  writing  of  scenes  and  types  of  people  with  which 
he  is  very  familiar,  the  sea  and  ships  and  those  who  live  in 
ships.  In  addition  to  the  adventure  element,  of  which  there 
is  an  abundance  of  the  usual  London  kind,  a  most  satisfying 
kind  it  is,  too,  there  is  a  thread  of  romance  involving  a  wealthy, 
tired  young  man  who  takes  the  trip  on  the  Elsinore,  and  the 
captain's  daughter.  The  play  of  incident,  on  the  one  hand  the 
ship's  amazing  crew  and  on  the  other  the  lovers,  gives  a  story 
in  which  the  interest  never  lags  and  which  demonstrates  anew 
what  a  master  of  his  art  Mr.  London  is. 

The  Three  Sisters 

By  MAY  SINCLAIR,  Author  of  "The  Divine 
Fire,"  "The  Return  of  the  Prodigal,"  etc. 

Cloth,  izmo.    $j.j5  net. 

Every  reader  of  The  Divine  Fire,  in  fact  every  reader  of  any 
of  Miss  Sinclair's  books,  will  at  once  accord  her  unlimited  praise 
for  her  character  work.  The  Three  Sisters  reveals  her  at  her 
best.  It  is  a  story  of  temperament,  made  evident  not  through 
tiresome  analyses  but  by  means  of  a  series  of  dramatic  incidents. 
The  sisters  of  the  title  represent  three  distinct  types  of  woman- 
kind. In  their  reaction  under  certain  conditions  Miss  Sinclair 
is  not  only  telling  a  story  of  tremendous  interest  but  she  is 
really  snowing  a  cross  section  of  life. 


PUBLISHED   BY 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue 
New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  FICTION 

The  Rise  of  Jennie  Gushing 

By  MARY  S.  WATTS,  Author  of  "Nathan  Burke," 
"Van  Cleeve,"  etc.  Cloth,  ismo.  $1.35  net. 

In  Nathan  Burke  Mrs.  Watts  told  with  great  power  the  story 
of  a  man.  In  this,  her  new  book,  she  does  much  the  same  thing 
for  a  woman.  Jennie  Gushing  is  an  exceedingly  interesting 
character,  perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  any  that  Mrs.  Watts 
has  yet  given  us.  The  novel  is  her  life  and  little  else,  but 
it  is  a  life  filled  with  a  variety  of  experiences  and  touching 
closely  many  different  strata  of  humankind.  Throughout  it 
all,  from  the  days  when  as  a  thirteen-year-old,  homeless,  friend- 
less waif,  Jennie  is  sent  to  a  reformatory,  to  the  days  when  her 
beauty  is  the  inspiration  of  a  successful  painter,  there  is  in  the 
narrative  an  appeal  to  the  emotions,  to  the  sympathy,  to  the 
affections,  that  cannot  be  gainsaid. 

Saturday's  Child 

By  KATHLEEN  NORRIS,  Author  of  "Mother," 

"The  Treasure,"  etc. 
With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Decorated  doth,  izmo.    $1.50  net. 

"  Friday's  child  is  loving  and  giving, 
Saturday's  child  must  work  for  her  living." 
The  title  of  Mrs.  Norris's  new  novel  at  once  indicates  its 
theme.  It  is  the  story  of  a  girl  who  has  her  own  way  to  make 
in  the  world.  The  various  experiences  through  which  she  passes, 
the  various  viewpoints  which  she  holds  until  she  comes  finally 
to  realize  that  service  for  others  is  the  only  thing  that  counts, 
are  told  with  that  same  intimate  knowledge  of  character,  that 
healthy  optimism  and  the  belief  in  the  ultimate  goodness  of 
mankind  that  have  distinguished  all  of  this  author's  writing. 
The  book  is  intensely  alive  with  human  emotions.  The  reader 
is  bound  to  sympathize  with  Mrs.  Norris's  people  because  they 
seem  like  real  people  and  because  they  are  actuated  by  motives 
which  one  is  able  to  understand.  Saturday's  Child  is  Mrs. 
Norris's  longest  work.  Into  it  has  gone  the  very  best  of  her 
creative  talent.  It  is  a  volume  which  the  many  admirers  of 
Mother  will  gladly  accept. 

PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue 
New  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  FICTION 


Metzel  Changes  His  Mind 

By  RACHEL  CAPEN  SCHAUFFLER,  Author 
of  "The  Goodly  Fellowship." 

With  frontispiece.  Decorated  cloth,  izmo.  $1.25  net. 
The  many  readers  who  enjoyed  The  Goodly  Fellowship  have 
been  eagerly  awaiting  something  more  from  the  pen  of  the  same 
author.  This  is  at  last  announced.  In  Metzel  Changes  His 
Mind,  Miss  Schauffler  strengthens  the  impression  made  by  her 
first  book  that  she  is  a  writer  of  marked  originality.  Here  again 
she  has  provided  an  unusual  setting  for  her  tale.  The  scene  is 
largely  laid  in  a  pathological  laboratory,  surely  a  new  back- 
ground for  a  romance.  It  is  a  background,  moreover,  which  is 
used  most  effectively  by  Miss  Schauffler  in  the  furtherance  of 
her  plot.  Her  characters,  too,  are  as  interesting  as  their  sur- 
roundings— a  woman  doctor,  attractive  as  well  as  sensible,  a 
gruff  old  German  doctor,  suspicious  of  womankind,  and  a  young 
American.  Around  these  the  action  centers,  though  half  a  dozen 
others,  vividly  sketched,  have  a  hand  in  the  proceedings.  Of 
course  Metzel  Changes  His  Mind  is  a  love  story,  but  not  of  the 
ordinary  type. 

Landmarks 

By  E.  V.  LUCAS,  Author  of  "Over  Bemerton's," 
"London  Lavender,"  etc.  Cloth,  izmo.  $1.35  net. 
Mr.  Lucas's  new  story  combines  a  number  of  the  most 
significant  episodes  in  the  life  of  the  central  figure;  in  other 
words,  those  events  of  his  career  from  early  childhood  to  the 
close  of  the  book  which  have  been  most  instrumental  in  building 
up  his  character  and  experience.  The  episodes  are  of  every 
kind,  serious,  humorous,  tender,  awakening,  disillusioning, 
and  they  are  narrated  without  any  padding  whatever,  each 
one  beginning  as  abruptly  as  in  life;  although  in  none  of  his 
previous  work  has  the  author  been  so  minute  in  his  social  obser- 
vation and  narration.  A  descriptive  title  precedes  each  episode, 
as  in  the  moving-picture;  and  it  was  in  fact  while  watching  a 
moving-picture  that  Mr.  Lucas  had  the  idea  of  adapting  its 
swift  selective  methods  to  fiction. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue 
New  Tork 


000037088     2 


